Echoes of Arlathan
by Sunruner
Summary: Soren Surana remembers life in the Ferelden Circle as a constant, dangerous dance between Mages and Templars set to Andraste's Chant: a dance he knew well. Jylan Ansera, poor thing, danced so badly his feet, and magic, were cut off. So what if they're both elves? Boo-hoo. Magic was the equalizing force in their lives. One seized his chance and became a hero. The other? Who cares.
1. Prologue: The Grand Cleric

**Dragon Age 2 Theme, Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, Room of Angels**

 **Hello, and welcome to Part 3 of the Warden Guerrin series! If you're new, then check out _Apprentice Guerrin_ and _Disgrace of Redcliffe_ on my profile as it will definitely be easier to figure out a lot of the references and characters if you've read those first. **

**_Echoes_ is a departure from its predecessors in that it follows my Warden Soren Surana and an Original Character/Tranquil Elf named Jylan Ansera. Most of the characters will be OCs either introduced in this story or previously in other installments. Warden Guerrin himself, as explained in Disgrace's epilogue, is far far far away right now, but may show up at some point if I feel like it.**

 **That's enough from me though, enjoy the prologue!**

* * *

 _ **Echoes of Arlathan**_

Prologue: The Grand Cleric

The Hero of Ferelden was getting married.

Soren Surana, Warden Commander of Ferelden and Archmage of Cumberland's College of Enchanters, had ruled the Arling of Amaranthine for fourteen years. Under his tenure, Amaranthine had weathered and survived the Darkspawn Thaw, rebuilt the fortress of Vigil's Keep, founded the Silver Order of Amaranthine for its own protection, and retained its great wealth through the arming of her merchant fleet. They had cut down on raider attacks and secured the lucrative lines of trade from Ferelden's quarries and textile houses to the wealthy merchants and spice traders of Antiva and the Free Marches.

He continuously forged trade agreements with vice-like control over the tithes and taxes levied against foreign ships, heedless of Denerim's own interests. The Arl was never one to make his intentions known to the capital before acting on them, poaching from the north's wealthy and powerful and filling his own Arling's coffers to the brim.

Arl Surana had opened his keep and then his city to the presence of the lost Tranquil abandoned by the broken Circles of Magi. In Amaranthine City he had founded a guild hall and granted them autonomy under his banner, establishing what was now, six years later, one of the wealthiest brotherhoods in the country.

It never had and never would be the authority of a Grey Warden or mere Archmage to supersede the Chantry's role in caring for its most vulnerable persons. That had he drawn the Tranquil to Amaranthine throughout the Mage-Templar war and offered sanctuary to a people who had never been under threat from the violence was neither laudable nor just: it was a corruption of purpose and the overstepping of boundaries.

He had refused, rejected, and soundly dismissed repeated petitions to have the Formari Guildsmen moved from Amaranthine City to the bosom of the Chantry in Val Royeaux, or even to the beating heart of his own Magi College in Cumberland. He was obstinate, stubborn, and far too convinced of his own importance to heed the derision of his betters.

Regardless of where one went within the Arling, nay, the country! The Warden Commander's insufferable personage was well known. Arrogant, proud, deceitful creature. A tongue as forked as his pointed ears, hissing in His Majesty King Alistair's noble ear.

Not a year gone now, Amaranthine had amassed an army in secret and marched without reservation into the heartland of Ferelden, her Hinterland forests, and Surana had _razed_ Castle Redcliffe in an act of inconceivable arrogance. He had weakened and wounded their nation's defenses for his own gain! He had taken the politics and manipulation of House Guerrin, an expectation and outright _reality_ for the nobility of every other civilized nation, and answered it with naked steel and foul magic. He had torn apart one of the oldest and most respected houses in Ferelden _brick by brick_ and taken their young heir and daughter hostage back with him to Amaranthine.

Now no Arling in Ferelden would stand against him. Arl Bryland of South Reach had tied a lead from his own neck to Surana's magic-scarred hand. Edge Hall and South Hills were reverent in Amaranthine's wake, Redcliffe and Denerim had been shattered from their very foundations by his wrath twice now. It was unbearable, un _thinkable_ , that any mage had been granted such intolerable freedom and permitted to wreak brazen havoc across their nation without even a _whisper_ of reprisal! The Teryn of Highever was misled so far as to carry on in friendly and confident terms with one who walked with the misbegotten pride of magic as his mantle. Even _Her Majesty_ , Queen Anora, was quiet and would never speak a word against his dishonourable person.

It was enough to make her _sick_ with rage.

Hero of Ferelden, so they called him. Slayer of Urthemiel, _so it was claimed_ despite his obvious good health after a battle which ought to have claimed his life in the moment of its end. Three Grey Wardens had stood at the Battle of Denerim and only one had died. Why was it Surana the Hero, not Riordan?

The wealthiest Arling in the nation handed to the thin-fingered clutches of an _elf_ of all the Maker's People- the very sort that never knew coin except to spend it frivolously on drink and dice! A _mage_ who spent every hour of every day taunted by _demons_ given unsupervised control of so many lives and livelihoods. A proud-nosed, insufferable example of what had dragged Shartan's people away from the Maker's guidance and caused their second nation to burn under the boots of the Exalted March.

And now the proud, vile-blooded creature demanded this of her: this _aberration._

The Hero of Ferelden was getting _married_ , and she, Grand Cleric Brona of Amaranthine, was being asked to _preside_ over the ceremony. The sanctity of Our Lady Redeemer, the holy centre of Amaranthine Arling, was being petitioned to host a gathering of the Ferelden Grey Wardens, Amaranthine Banns, the Teryn of Highever, the five other Arls of Ferelden, and presence of His and Her Majesties King Alistair and Queen Anora of Ferelden for a _mockery_ of their Lady's teachings.

The elven, magic-corrupted Hero of Ferelden was getting married and not even to a woman of his own kind, but to a _human_. A _Chasind woman_ not even of Andraste's Blessed following!

It would not be tolerated.

Amaranthine's Grand Cleric would _not_ allow it.

* * *

 **Next chapter is already up because this was less than 1000 words and you guys deserve more. Leave a comment below so I know how you feel about this new start!**


	2. The Chemist and The Warden

**The Prologue and the second half of chapter were once together, but I just like the succinct end of Brona's part. Leave a comment below when you're finished!**

* * *

 _ **Echoes of Arlathan**_

The Chemist and the Warden

Eyes opened some time before dawn, a rhythm cultivated over years in the Circle tower.

Cold air, but a warm, heavy quilt. It was dark. The bed smelled of straw and was comfortable. The iron brazier had gone cold, justifying the low temperature of the room. It was unpleasant to rise from the bed and feel the cold air on hands and throat and feet.

The cold and rest made the muscles in his sides tight, his arms were heavy. Warm socks woven from thick wool protected his feet from the stone floor as he pulled one on, and then the other. He lifted his arms over his head and stretched his back, pulled one arm to the side to stretch his shoulder, and repeated the gesture on the other side.

Rose, turned, found knees and hands on the cold floor. Held arms straight and then bent to the floor, rose again without locking elbows. Repeated for three sets of seven. The exercise warmed his skin in the cold, as it was unwise to waste charcoal and time rekindling the brazier at the start of the day. He transferred his weight and sat on the floor, hands behind his head, and pulled with his gut to sit up and then ease back down. Three sets of ten. The room was no longer cold to him.

The water was cold. He drank some from the wooden cup, then used the rest to wash his face and hands. In the dark he combed his hair, and he was competent at parting the long black strands and folding them into a braid that ended at the base of his neck. It was not long and did not capture all of his hair, but it was sufficient. Soft wool was traded for good linen smallclothes, and then warm wool-woven trousers of grey. The linen shirt was white with long sleeves and cleanly stitched seams and hems.

The under robe was made of thick white wool, cream-coloured with sleeves cut close around his wrists and marked with several rows of dancing red stitches. It was buttoned down the front. The top layer was dark blue wool, sleeveless, with a dark hood. It was heavy and good with a row of wooden buttons inside and a set of white toggles on the outside. It was belted with simple leather which was notched to hold tools that were not present in this room. He found his shoes in their place beneath the frame of the bed and put them on.

From the small table in the room, which was not easily seen in the dark, he found the wooden box placed in the middle of it and the pieces resting inside. The first was a wooden amulet with a swinging face of the chantry's yellow sunburst. When the face turned, the inscription was clearly visible: _'May the Maker Guide you back to our love - Mother'_. Not his mother. The woven cord was placed over his head, his hair pulled out of the way, and the amulet was tucked between the blue and white robes. The second was a ring of cut white quartz with the Formari pestle and hand, which was placed on the middle finger of his left hand. The third was a large iron ring with three keys attached, with a long leather strap. The strap looped through his belt, and the ring clipped to the belt as well in a different place, allowing him to remove the ring without becoming detached from the keys themselves. By drawing the dark hood over his head, he was now prepared to leave.

Hunger was his second priority. He left the cold room and the corridor was also cold, but was in the process of being lit by lantern light by a servant with a pot of oil. They did not address one another, and one of the keys locked the door to the room he had just exited.

He proceeded down the corridor and to the left. It was before dawn and first bell, Vigil's Keep was quiet and only the servants had cause to wander the halls. He found the drafty way through the castle to a cold hallway with an exterior door at the end: it was ajar to the drizzling rain outside. There was a door before the exit that was on his left again, and he inserted the largest of the three keys into this lock. It opened.

It was a workshop, clean, and as it was left yesterday. It was very cold with its wood countertops and stone shelves and hanging cabinets with their glass windows. The work-table in the middle of the room was clear but for a ledger, large basket, wide linen cloth, and several jars and parcels all left out intentionally. He approached the quiet, dark, cold fireplace in the far corner and knelt, drawing forth a large woven basket filled with pieces of tinder and wood. He transferred the larger pieces of tinder into the quiet maw of the hearth, followed by a handful of cast-off threads, soiled wool clippings, and bundles of dried grass and roots. The fire caught quickly.

He took one of the two great black cauldrons and filled it with water from the pump set in the back-counter's stone sink, under the bubbled glass window which was not yet lit by the sun. The pump was loud in the quiet, the wooden handle bore a heavy grain that marked his palm. Several thrusts of cold air resulted in a gurgle and splash of cold water. It was clean. It filled the cauldron and was heavy when lifted.

The cauldron was placed on the floor. A larger piece of wood was fed to the fire, and then the cauldron was hung by a strong hook meant to carry such weight. His first priority had been seen to, now he would eat.

The workshop was locked. He went back through the keep. He reached the servants' mess hall and found those who had been awake far longer than him and hard at work. The stones down here were always warm and the Vigil's cisterns were near the central fires which kept the kitchens running. Hot, fresh bread with a spoonful of soft salted butter and sweet jam. A fresh autumn apple. His hood remained up, his voice was not necessary: he took his food with a quiet nod and left the hall.

The workshop was unlocked. The food was consumed. From a drawer: soft doeskin gloves were pulled over his hands, and a folded bundle of paper in a tanned yellow skin folio was withdrawn. The ledger was reviewed, names and requests checked against the small folio, and each item was verified by his touch before being placed in the basket. Bundles of herbs, wooden jars, wax paper bundles, and glass vials were placed in the basket, and then covered by the linen.

The workshop was locked.

"Mornin', Compounder." Four quarter-pound blocks of soap, individually wrapped to prevent contact with water before necessary, were handed to the Kennelmaster and signed for. "He's eager for his walk this morning, as you'd expect. Mind he doesn't knock you over in the rain." One of the kennels was opened, and a great grey mabari hound was let out. Dirthamen. Dirth.

The dog panted, thick pink tongue lolling from its jaws. It scampered and danced with heavy feet, back end wagging. Large claws pressed on his toes, then the paws came up and pushed hard on his chest, necessitating a change in stance so he was not pushed over. Hot breaths washed up to his face. Unpleasant smell. Unnecessary attention.

"Sit." Obedient hound. "Thank you, Kennelmaster." To Dirthamen: "Come."

Out into the rain, with the clouds turning a soft blue and grey with the retreating night. Not heavy rain, but cold. A scarf would have been advisable but not necessary: it was not yet winter.

"This should have come yesterday." A large case of glue for the carpenters, heavy, delivered first to relieve the weight. "Off with you, elf." He left.

"This is the completely wrong dye!" Four pots of pigment for the seamstre- "Why would you bring me more green? Open those leaf ears of yours next time!"

"Heatherfrond dye was the request noted in the apothecary ledg-"

"We'll see what your master has to say on the matter when he returns!" That would not be for many months, but he did not make this statement. "Quit staring! The rest of us have work to take pride in- get!" He left.

"Out again without a cloak, I see." He was sufficiently warmed by his clothes and said as much as he handed the appropriate jars of salve to the Midwife, Mistress Valora. The old elven woman tugged off the lid of each one to check the contents and consistencies of the creams, and took her bottles of distilled snowdrop oil. She handed him a bushel of tangled elfroot gathered by her granddaughter with instructions to have the resulting salve brought to her when it was ready. A familiar red-woven satchel was passed to him without comment and placed in the basket. Dirthamen's nose snuffed at the basket in vain.

Mistress Valora shut the door and he left.

"If I have told you once, I have told you a thousand times: you may not enter the chantry unescorted." He had not entered the chantry, he was standing presently at its doors to deliver the bars of incense for- "You may not have crossed the threshold but you are certainly within the gates. You will wait at the chanter's board for these deliveries: I will not have your presence cause the Maker's children to hesitate to attend their prayers. Andraste will give me the patience to forgive this transgression yet again, child, but you of all people should know better than to test the limits of that grace."

"…When the incense has run thin, Revered Mother, I will wait at the chanter's board to deliver the next supply."

"Walk in the Maker's Light, Compounder." He left with first bell ringing in the start of the day, Dirthamen's heavy paws splashing in puddles on the way back to the keep.

The workshop was unlocked. The fire was stoked. The water was boiling. His hands were cold. He tied an apron over his robes and replaced the doeskin gloves for rough work-gloves. The ledger was opened and looked over. Heatherfrond dye written in the seamstress' hand from yesterday, now crossed out. Tallow requested by the quartermaster. Salem seed glue for the library. Rat poison for the kitchen.

The satchel from the midwife was opened, he extracted a thick, clean beef bone, and handed it to the hound. Dirthamen took it and curled up into his basket under the table, content.

He began to work.

He fetched what he required: a vial of salem seed oil and the raw seeds as well. Several cups of salem seeds were measured into the mortar, and lightly crushed. An iron skillet was heated in the space between the cauldron and the embers, and the seeds were toasted in it. Some of the oil was added, the pan removed from the heat, and the mixture poured back into the mortar. Now it was beaten into a paste. The paste smelled like ash. The oil was grey and grainy, the proper traits. In an hour it would sit and rest.

"You there, where's the healer?" The salem paste had been beaten for only half that time when there was a voice at the door. Half that time and the oil was black, but too loose. Not ready. "Oi, I'm talking to you!" It was not ready. He stopped. He looked up. A human man he did not know, but his question was understood.

"Warden Guerrin has been dispatched from Vigil's Keep for the Anderfels," he stated. "He will not return until spring at the earliest."

"Well who'm I supposed to talk to then? _You?_ "

"I am not qualified as a healer. I am the Vigil's-"

"What's that _mess_ on your face?"

"I am tranquil, the brand is a mark from the ritual." He said. "I am the castle's chemist and in Warden Guerrin's absence the Acting Apothecary of Vigil's Keep. If you know what medicine or treatment you require then I am able to prepare it for you."

"Bloody useless you are then." The man left.

He resumed his work. When the paste was ready it was scraped and the contents placed in a large bowl which was then filled with water. The black dredges would sink, the fine oil would rise, the bowl was placed on one of the counters with a linen cloth over it.

One of the lower cupboards was opened. With great effort, the large block of rendered druffalo fat was dragged from the dark space. With a heated wire he sliced a large slab off the front end and pushed the remainder back inside. The tallow was softened with moderate heat and heavy kneading, then pressed into block molds to ensure an even amount to match the request, and then left to set.

Rat poison. The midday bell interrupted the preparations.

The satchel from Mistress Valora was opened, and a pie of spinach and cheese was placed in a clean and covered iron skillet to heat over the fire. Water from the cauldron was poured into a cup holding dried mint leaves and crushed berries for tea. When the pie was warm again, he brought it to the table, sat down, and ate it. The crust was crisp and flakey, the spinach leaves twisted and heavy with fat from the salted cheese. Shreds of onion gave soft bursts of flavour when he chewed. The tea, sweetened with a coil of honey, was hot and satisfying.

The workshop was warm from the fire and his work. The window was filtering dull light from the scattered rainclouds outside. He was not hungry. It was a pleasant day.

"Are you resting, _lethallin?_ " A woman's voice and soft knock from the door drew his attention.

"For one hour, yes," he said. "Do you require my services, Warden Athras?"

"Only your company, if that's alright."

"It is."

An'eth Athras of Clan Zathrian, Grey Warden and Dalish hunter. Her mother had died during the Blight fifteen years ago, but her spirit had taken her to the Grey Wardens after a youth spent travelling and learning her craft. Her stature was average for elven women, shorter than most humans, but her training had given her great strength throughout her body.

Her bright orange hair was shaved clean across one side of her head, the rest brushed over and down the other side with three thin and beaded braids swinging from the front and then around one of her long ears. Bright grey eyes and strong, forward nose. Small mouth. Tattoos of Dirthamen bloomed from her top lip and circled up around her eyes, crowning her forehead. Her sword and shield and spear were all missing, as was much of her silverite warden armour. Instead she wore the black trousers and shirt of a warden, covered and kept warm with the layers of textured green fabric from her Dalish home. At least four different weaves of fabric were twisted over her shoulders, folded across her waist, and falling from her hips.

She was his friend.

"I brought these for us to share." She unhooked a satchel from her belt and opened it, folding the mouth down to reveal a cache of roasted chestnuts. The bag was still warm. "It's early in the season, but I thought it worth the effort anyways."

"Thank you for considering me." Taking one of the nuts, the shells had softened from the heat and peeled easily. The meat was soft and carried a faint sweetness.

An'eth hiked up one leg and then lifted herself to sit on the table, feet swinging as she reached into the bag.

"Do you like them?" She asked with a smile before peeling her own to eat.

"They are warm." He answered.

"I meant the flavour, do you like the taste?"

"It is pleasant." It was not the type of answer she desired. "I have little motivation to eat at present. I was given food by the midwife this morning."

"Did you eat before going to see her?" An'eth asked him, guiding another chestnut to her lips with a finger.

"Yes."

"Two meals today then, yes?"

"It is not my intention to deny myself food when busy, An'eth." That was her primary concern.

"No, but it's a bad habit of yours when Guerrin isn't home, _lethallin_." She frowned at him, and then reached towards him and pushed down the edge of his hood. The side of it caught on one of his ears and he gave a small shake of his head to make it fall. "You don't need to wear that all the time, it's warm in here."

Her hand withdrew, but her thumb brushed across his cheek. Cool, deliberate, and slow. It paired softly with her comment and the heavy look in her eyes.

"The output of the workshop does not change, but the workload shifts exclusively to myself and Mistress Valora when Warden Guerrin is deployed." He answered her first comment and not the second. Her unspoken meaning was understood but was not easily addressed. "I have adjusted my routine to accommodate the changes." An'eth folded her hands back in her lap, the chestnuts cooling between them.

"Please don't let the Vigil work you too hard, _lethallin_."

"Although my responsibilities are more numerous here, they are not as intense as my previous obligations within the Formari Guildsmen nor the Fereldan Circle." His explanation did not ease her concern and he was not certain how to proceed. "I am well, An'eth."

"I know. I just want you to stay that way." She was going to say more and then did not. He waited. He had nothing else to focus on.

The quiet extended. She would not speak.

"Jylan," she did speak and it was good. Others had a tendency to feel awkward or uncomfortable when silence lingered beyond an acceptable time frame. She was looking at her hands until she turned her gaze back to him. "Do I make you uncomfortable?"

"No, you are my friend." His answer was a statement of fact and was answered by her placing a hand on his shoulder. At first the gesture was not easily felt, but once her touch grew warm it became pleasant. "Are you indicating that I should stand?"

"If it's alright with you." She was distressed and he was unclear as to the reason why. He stood and her hand trailed down his arm. He pushed the chair back under the table and faced her again. She was standing and there was a misted, tender look across her face. This was not unheard of, however Jylan was not aware of what infrequently prompted this reaction from her. Because he did not know, he asked.

"I recognize that you are upset, An'eth. Has an event transpired to cause you emotional pain?"

"No, not really." Her answer did not settle the matter. He was not convinced. She looked at him, then down, then up at him. He waited.

"May I hug you?" She asked her question abruptly but it was not unexpected. She had asked this of him before and been granted his permission.

"If it will relieve you of your present anxiety, then yes." She slid her arms under his and he lifted them to permit the gesture. An'eth was not wearing her hard warden plate armour, her embrace did not pinch or cut against him. She walked flush against him and pressed her face to his shoulder, distressed and pulling him tight with her arms.

He was incompetent at relieving her emotional distress. To hug was not a difficult or complicated task, but the nuances did not present themselves to him. Hugs before the Rite of Tranquility had involved a certain level of movement and adjustment; a tenderness that was drawn from clues he had learned since then to stop struggling to find. His arm knew how to fold along the curve of her back because it was comfortable, his hand could find the base of her neck so his elbow tucked down behind her. This was how two bodies fit together in an embrace.

Beyond this, there was nothing more for him to provide. She rubbed his back and it was wiser to remain still than to mimic the gesture. She took a deep breath in against him, but he was not suffering the effects of anxiety and did not copy her. Her embrace tightened again, and then she released him.

"You do not appear calmer." He observed very few differences as she stepped back from him. The embrace had not been successful. "I apologize, An'eth. Perhaps _Hahren_ Velanna will be able to provide you with more sufficient care."

"No, I do feel better." He did not believe her words to be true, but did not correct her. Her eyes were red and tired-looking, her face told him she was sad. "Thank you, Jylan. I'll let you continue with your work now. Maybe I'll see you after the evening bell?"

"You need not pressure yourself to spend time in my presence." It was worthwhile to give this reminder at times. "I am not impacted by the reality of loneliness." Incorrect response. Her distress increased again with a deep crease across her brow.

" _Jylan…_ " His words had the opposite effect than intended: it would be wise of him not to speak further. She held a hand out and he was obligated to take it, and then to let her squeeze it tightly. "The only pressure on me is to leave you alone so you can work. I'll see you after the evening bell."

He nodded to her and did not speak. She squeezed his hand again and then left.

He did not take time to reflect on the matter because he was no longer permitted to leisure: his hour was at an end. He prepared the rat poison, he updated the ledger, and he worked. He was warm and he was not hungry, he felt no concerning discomfort in his body.

It was a pleasant day.

* * *

"Y'know, sir, I don't think the Grand Cleric likes you very much." That comment, under the bright blue sky and cold autumn wind, made Soren laugh.

"Ah, Nathaniel," he said, stopping with one booted foot planted on the grey stone steps weaving up through Amaranthine City. "Whatever gave you that idea?" They were on their way together to the cathedral of Our Lady Redeemer. The great chantry cathedral was perched atop the high hill in the city's eastern quarter, close to Bann Talbind's great house where the three of them were walking from.

"It could be the fact that she hates you," Nathaniel Howe, Warden Captain and loyal friend, paused next to him in his quilted blue gambeson and polished silverite chest-piece. His armour was comfortable on his tall form, his long black hair combed and braided to keep out of his way. He'd shaved all but the tuft of black hair in the dip of his chin this morning, and his grave expression granted his light tone a well-received sense of irony and levity. "I mean, I know it's a bother to come all the way into Amaranthine for chantry services, but the few I have heard are… not exactly _friendly_ towards your grace."

"Corrupting magic in the hands of a weak-minded elf?" Soren asked him, raising his gloved hands and stroking the air with each finger for emphasis. The human cringed before nodding. "Nothing I haven't heard before, Nate."

"Probably, but you'd think she'd lay off a little given who's in charge in Val Royeaux these days. Aren't you _friends_ with the Divine?"

"That only serves to make him more of a threat, of course." Zevran, Soren's second companion for the day said from a step behind him. His black leather armour was undercut with fine gold fabric which hid the delicate chain mail beneath it, remaining true to an old and familiar preference for beauty that distracted from utility. His dark blue cloak was cut around the edges with black to match his outfit, and he kept a wary eye out as the three of them trotted along through the city. "Come now, you know how these things work. What's eating you?"

"It doesn't take a week to answer a letter from Vigil's Keep to Amaranthine and back again," Nathaniel complained. " _That's_ what's eating me." Soren hmm'd to himself and carried forward, the wind catching the edges of his gold robe as he walked.

His robes were not a usual mage's garb. The gold and silver-stitched fabric was cut wide from the waist down and flared open to give his legs room to walk, black trousers and a set of silverite tassets protecting his legs and waist. The seam between his robe and his breastplate was pleasing to the eye, the Grey Griffon rearing proudly across his chest. A silverite gorget circled his throat and disappeared down between the robe's golden front and the shirt and mail he wore underneath, his hands protected by leather vambraces up his arms and silverite gauntlets keeping his fingers and wrists safe. He did not require or want his helmet today and had left it behind along with his staff.

If he was going to speak with the Grand Cleric of Amaranthine, then her Arl didn't need to bring a mage's weapon with him. He was quite capable of defending himself if need be with the heraldic shield hanging from his back, and the old elven sword strapped to his waist. If push came to shove, the small gold dagger tucked into his belt behind him would do more damage than the sword.

"As long as you two keep your gloves on," Zevran told Nathaniel in a bright, cheerful way. "I anticipate nothing more than the usual discomfort from Her Holiness."

"That's what I'm _afraid_ of…" Nathaniel complained again, flexing his hands uncomfortably within his gloves. Soren regarded the action briefly, but then withheld a comment telling Nathaniel the tattoos on his hand were his own fault for consenting to a Dalish wedding ritual. As for Soren's own hands, the crawling, obvious red marks scarring his fingers and palms from many years of powerful and reckless magical practice would only offend the Grand Cleric's _delicate_ sensibilities.

This would be a simple matter and he hushed them both as they approached the cathedral at last. Our Lady Redeemer had a proud façade of blue-black Amaranthine granite, a grand tower stretching up from her front wall and rising impressively high to hold the great starburst of Andraste in the autumn sunlight. The bronze was strong and old, but a clear sight from most parts of the city. Her windows were made of stained glass, an expensive luxury even for Amaranthine, but from the outside they were only dark, formless panels of iron-cut glass. The few shrubs and flowerbeds in high planters dotting the courtyard between the grand stairs and the cathedral doors hosted a few of the city's denizens, and a good number of the chantry's initiates and sisters in their white and red robes.

As it was his city, Soren was not required to announce himself days or hours in advance. He had every right, when in Amaranthine City, to wander as he pleased and go where he may. The cathedral had its private areas yes, but its grand hall brimming with light from those tall windows was open to all of Andraste's Faithful followers.

So it was that the Archmage strode forward into the holy place, inclining his head briefly to the Sister present to welcome worshippers for the quiet hours between prayers and songs. Nathaniel's hand deposited three fat gold coins into the pedestal of purified water standing next to the sister, one for each of them, and the pious display of wealth quieted the young woman before she could say anything.

Rich chantries had a particular sort of smell to them: sweet and smoky from burning bars of sandalwood and frankincense. Smaller ones found in country hamlets or lesser quarters of Ferelden's cities would also fill themselves with fragrance, but it never smelled quite the same. The husks of old imported cinnamon and dried fruits or flowers didn't have the right depth of aroma. Our Lady Redeemer smelled strongly of years of only the finest oils and dried herbs, the scent soaked into the heavy wooden pews and worn into the granite blocks holding her tall ceiling aloft. The Cathedral smelled like Andraste's Flame. It smelled the way the Circles once had, but without the same cold, metallic something to go along with it.

Soren, Zevran, and Nathaniel followed the red quartz tiles laid like a carpet from the front door through the long hall of the cathedral, reaching the high dais in its sanctuary that was proudly presided over by a bronze statue of Andraste herself. She held her sword and her shield, the blade held aloft with the promise declared in the cathedral's name: she who would redeem the lost peoples of Thedas against the wrath and corruption of the Tevinter Imperium. At the footstone of the statue was a plaque bolted to a misshapen piece of raw stone: the place where Andraste had first revealed the Chant of Light to the world.

This was a _very_ holy place. Soren approached the stone, took a knee before it, and bowed his head. He selected a prayer, something simple, something to the point, and mouthed the words to make sure his time spent at the relic was neither too long nor too short. Then he stood and moved aside, doubting Zevran would kneel the same way but aware that Nathaniel probably wanted to and would give a prayer with a bit more feeling to it.

There was just enough time for Nathaniel to honour his Prophet before the Grand Cleric of Amaranthine was upon them. Brona was an older woman with a stout figure and her dark brown hair threaded with grey, all of it braided up behind her head. Her mouth was a constant frown, her nose blunt and her grey eyes were forever filled with reproach. Soren understood the Grand Cleric to be a very forward and forthright person, someone to be respected and her lapses in manners tolerated.

This was not a woman who had been plucked from a garden in Val Royeaux and cast into the Fereldan winter, she was born from this country and had served and suffered hard for her position. She had founded schools for the city's poor children, and during the Blight had spearheaded the effort to sway cold hearts and secure passage for countless Fereldan Refugees fleeing the darkspawn. Her chantry's walls had protected the city's militia against the Mother's army fourteen years ago, her Sisters and Initiates serving to stitch wounds, sooth the dying, and shelter the frightened and feeble. Soren remembered those contributions from the Thaw and her dedicated works since then, they were worth more than most of what people in power usually drew attention to.

"Grand Cleric, a fine morning to you." Soren clenched his hand and touched his fist over his heart, inclining his head as he performed the salute. He knew, before the gesture was done, that her thin mouth twisted bitterly at the sight of him. It was unfortunate to him that he seemed cursed with making enemies of the powerful people who had once been his allies.

"Warden Commander," she stated in a tone that struggled against her own ire. "Your presence here is unexpected."

"Then it appears my letter has been waylaid, your grace," Soren answered her pleasantly, with a slow nod to suggest a pardon on the messenger. "I have come today to discuss a matter of celebration for the Arling."

"I would have thought you more aware of your situation, Commander." She did not refer to him as Arl and that did not surprise him: she never did. _'Magic is meant to serve mankind, never to rule over him'_ , a mage in a position of civil authority was considered by many to be a blatant disregard of Andraste's primary rule. "Sometimes silence is the most appropriate answer that one can give."

"Your grace," Soren uttered, drawing on the same virtue he named.

"Walk." The word was sharp and clipped off his armour, and the gilded priestess turned and clearly intended for him to follow her from half a step behind. Very well, he would do this her way.

The Grand Cleric wore a long dark grey coat which fell nearly to the floor and was cinched with a wide gold sash around her waist, a crimson belt cut with gold holding her long red gown closed under the coat. Andraste's sunburst came down from her collar and up from the hem of her gown, but it was not needlessly fine. Clean, certainly, and of good quality, of course, but not extravagant. Grand Cleric Brona was not a woman who had earned her position for the sake of lavishing in rose-water baths and decorating herself in glittering jewels. She was the spiritual leader of their Arling and she fulfilled that position with dignified severity.

She would have been _such_ a good ally to have at his side, but Soren had played this game for fourteen years and knew that door wasn't just locked, it was bricked over on the other side.

"Warden Commander," She kept her hands behind her back as she walked, ushering away curious Sisters with a simple nod of her head. "We are two persons who hold an obligation to the people we oversee within our mutual realms. We are to uphold a standard of behaviour and strength that is to inspire the masses who come to us: to you, for matters of state and war, to me, for all else." Not quite, but he did not argue with her. The chantry did not control _all else_ save statecraft and steel. "That said, I expect a certain level of commitment and virtue from you."

"You Grace, matters of commitment and fidelity are exactly my purpose in approaching you."

"Commitment to whom, exactly?" She stopped walking after successfully leading them away from the statue of Andraste. Zevran and Nathaniel held themselves back by a few paces but had clearly been following, and now Soren and the Grand Cleric stood in an alcove of the sanctuary that was still open to the light of the stained windows, but private enough for this talk. "And to what? Your own _lust?_ "

Don't.

"Grand Cleric." He kept his voice smooth, and his intentions mild. "By taking the mother of my child and the only woman I have ever accepted as a partner as my legal wife, I mean to lead by example in the most direct way. This wedding will banish any whispers about my personal affairs and give my mistress the acknowledgement she deserves."

"You curry no favour for yourself by ignoring the matter before you," she told him shortly and with a lick of temper heating the back of her words. "You should have been rid of one another before your son was even born, Surana, only then might his mother have sparred him the truth his half-blooded nature." His temper warmed itself. No. Resist. "The recklessness of your engagement _as a mage_ with another bearing the same curse expresses only an unspeakable flaw of character, and it is only by Andraste's Provision at the side of our Maker that the child escaped the same stain on his soul. You have been granted your boon by the Maker, Commander, do not tempt Him further."

His tongue curled, his lips were dry: he would not lick them.

"You decry actions well over a decade behind us, your grace."

"And now here we stand a decade later, and you approach me to suggest blessing such a poor match. To validate the reckless decisions of your youth."

"I do not suggest it," He felt his tongue grow sharp and reeled it back in, the burn of sandalwood thick across his pallet. "I tell you, your grace, I will marry her. As Arl of Amaranthine-"

"As Grand Cleric of Amaranthine I remind the mage before me to mind his tone." Her statement was sharp and sudden, a snake that bit fast through the thin cloth of his defense. "How dare you speak out of turn in Our Lady's Holiest of Halls? You are a son of Shartan, he who was dragged from his chains by Andraste's golden arms, and you will respect that debt when you speak in the place where she first brought the Maker's Words to mankind."

He curled his tongue, set his teeth together, and did not speak. He knew why he did not speak but he could not voice the reason, not with the frankincense in the air burning his eyes. Brona sighed to release her anger and shook her head to him in pity.

"The Maker crafted humans and elves as distinct from one another," she stated, quoting now from the scholars whose names had haunted the Circle's halls. "Whole and proper and worthy of His love, but distinct. When a child of both bloods is brought into this world through lust's painful burning, her _el'vhen_ nature is veiled and all her parts and glory are as her human parent. That is the Maker's Will and you cannot argue against it, not you, not the Divine herself."

"Divine Victoria _has ruled_ -" He did not have the letter with him, he had left it behind because he had felt he would not need it. Soren knew that even if he had brought Leliana's declaration with him however, it would not have changed anything.

"- _incorrectly_." The word came down on him hard, and he did not know how to answer it. "Her vote has passed by the barest of margins and the discussion has not ended, will not end for many years to come. You disgrace yourself and your office by jumping so eagerly to such a grotesque perversion of our chantry's holy sacraments. For _shame_ , Surana, _for shame_." She dared-?

But she did it with _those_ words. With this smoke hanging around him. With _that_ statue looming behind them.

His temper froze, it locked and hurt in his chest, fragments of ice breaking off and splashing loud and awful into the calm current of his magic. He said the only words he could find and he spoke them much too softly to work against her.

"It is the Arl's right to be married in sanctity of Our Lady Redeemer."

"It is the Grand Cleric's right to _defend_ the sanctity of Our Lady Redeemer." Brona's words cut him and he recognized now how tightly his hands were clutching his wrists behind his back. His fingertips were hurting in his gauntlets. "I will not allow this parade of disrespect to trespass across Andraste's holy gaze. Find yourself a partner from among your own people, free of magic's taint, loyal to the Chant and reverent to Our Lady, and you will have your wedding, _Lord_ Surana. Until you have cleansed these abhorrent notions from your mind and cease to disrespect the distinctions crafted by the Maker Himself, this topic will bear no further discussion. Walk in the Maker's Light, my son, and repent."

She dismissed him with a hand and Soren… took that dismissal and left. He needed away from the smoke and weight of the Chantry air.

"Commander-" Nathaniel and Zevran were on his heels before he left the building, but they didn't speak until he was out again in the brisk autumn air. When Soren didn't acknowledge him upfront he felt Nathaniel's hand touch his arm in a sudden and unwanted manner. He pulled away from it automatically and stopped walking, facing the other Warden with a short stop and pivot.

"What?" He demanded, and Nathaniel's face was shocked before he pointed a hand back at the cathedral.

"What the hell was that?" The huma- Nathaniel. Warden Howe asked him.

"She said no," Soren told him. "I'm not going to embarrass myself by kicking up a fuss and yelling in a cathedral, Nathaniel." He felt cold. He felt brittle. He wanted to go home.

"I'm not asking why you didn't yell, I'm asking why you didn't _speak._ " Soren took a breath through his nose, held it, and didn't answer. He felt a spark of offense when Nathaniel's stern gaze melted into a soft and worried gaze that tried to smother him. The heat over the cold made everything feel sticky and raw. He didn't like it. "No one talks to you like that and keeps their hide in one piece. Not one damn person from here to the Anderfels can make you shut up when there's something to be said. What the hell happened in there?"

"Do you expect me to stand in the middle of the Chantry and throw insults at the Grand Cleric?" Soren asked him with more heat than was right, thick bubbles of something foul filling and bursting inside of him. "Subtle or not, Nathaniel, I'm not going to alienate her even further."

"I've heard you take down that Shartan _bullshit_ more times than I can count," his Warden growled back at him and it was _badly timed._ That grotesque sludge was dripping from his ribs, sweet with sandalwood and smoke. "And you just let her walk all over you with it! You've got the Divine Herself praising your engagement to Lady Morrigan- if this is just a ploy of yours then at least have the decency to say so!"

" _Shut up-_ " -stop. "Enough." Nathaniel recoiled from him and Soren didn't immediately know why.

"Did-?" Nathaniel grunted, eyes tight with confusion. "Did you just call me _human?_ " He-

How dare he? How dare Soren speak a distinction of the Maker's crafted will like an insult, a cut against the appropriate whole of His works? How dare he, lungs smothered from burning cloves, talk back beyond his place and-

"Well you are, aren't you?" He choked out the words, turned away from his friends, and left them.

Zevran did not let Nathaniel follow.


	3. Zevran Knows Best

**It got run off the page because the summary character limit is so short, but there are some warnings with this story. Aside from matters of racism, the narrative will deal with issues of consent and different _kinds_ of abuse, not just physical. Any chapters that are overly explicit will have a warning at the beginning! **

* * *

_**Echoes of Arlathan**_

Zevran Knows Best

It was midday and Zevran had not allowed Nathaniel to chase after his Commander through the streets of Amaranthine after their alarming visit to the Chantry. Truly though, Zevran had not wanted to go after him either. Soren was not a weak person and Zevran had made it his duty over the years to make sure no one ever made accusations of it. It was not weakness to desire space for yourself after an unpleasant altercation, and Soren's meeting with Grand Cleric Brona clearly counted as one.

Instead of following his distressed friend, Zevran took Warden Howe with him to find something in the market worth eating. This was Amaranthine in fall, there was absolutely no shortage of delectable and scrumptious goods for them to sample, and for no more than a few coppers each, he might add.

Salted and sliced turnips breaded with subtle rosemary, honey-drizzled apple tarts, succulent squash mashed with butter and cream and piped into hot bread rolls, or Zevran's personal favourite: a battered fish cake sprinkled with onion and then fried until crisp. Almost as good as the ones made in Antiva City, not quite; but almost.

The food calmed the Warden walking about with him, and when they found a place to sit atop a short wall separating the bustling market from one of the quieter alleys, it was easy to ignore the unpleasant morning by digging into their wonderful lunch.

"Are you going to explain it then?" Nathaniel finally asked him, and Zevran frowned at him for interrupting the meal. "Why the Warden Commander would ever tolerate being spoken to like that?"

"Do you really think it was a matter of tolerance?" They had both been close enough to hear what was spoken between Soren and the Grand Cleric, and neither of them had liked it. "Was it a tolerant and put-upon look you saw on his face?"

Brona was known for her particular views and opinions and Soren was well-aware of them. What was strange to Zevran was that his friend had sought out a meeting with her only to go so quiet and bear so much of the Grand Cleric's ire without protest. Something must have gone wrong, but Zevran was baffled as to what. Andraste's Golden Arms, _bah._ Nathaniel was certainly right to wonder after his Commander's odd behaviour. Soren had ended lives for lesser insults against himself, nevermind Morrigan or his son Kieran.

"No." Good answer. Zevran had plainly seen the fear that had burned through his friend before they had left the cathedral. Another strange thing: of all the things he could have felt after facing her, why fear? His friend and companion was not the sort of person to frighten easily, and certainly not before bitter old women, but the bloodless look on his face, the way he had hung his shoulders, and the weak breaths he'd taken when turning away from the cathedral had not escaped Zevran's notice. The Archmage had been frightened when he left them and had needed time and space to control himself.

"I don't even think he was that angry with me when he left either." Nathaniel's voice was quiet and Zevran plucked the last of the apple tarts from the crumpled paper the good wife who sold them had packed them in. "It wasn't like him at all."

"You mean the ' _human'_ comment?" Zevran asked, then took another sweet, flakey bite of the pastry. "No, I agree. Annoyance with you for pestering him perhaps, but not anger."

"Well I had every reason to bother him." Nathaniel defended himself and Zevran merely shrugged. Soren had been berated sideways for his ears and eyes not moments earlier, that he would make an unusual comment was not so unbelievable when frazzled like that. "Revered Mother Iris acknowledged my marriage already back at Vigil's Keep. The Grand Cleric's attitude doesn't _just_ affect Surana on this issue." It affected any elf or human or dwarf who had ever looked beyond their own kin and kind to find the affection and love they had been missing. Leliana had known her _Dedication On Love and Marriage_ as Divine would meet with resistance, it was simply unfortunate that one of those defiant heads should preside over Amaranthine.

Nathaniel was gazing up and away from the market as Zevran mulled the issue and kept his peace. The Warden's eyes were watching the skyline over the city to the east, perhaps looking for the spire and sunburst of Our Lady Redeemer.

"The Arls of Amaranthine have been married in that cathedral for every generation since it was built." He stated, and by remembering how many of those Arls had been Howes it lent credence to his words. "Brona isn't going to get away with turning the Hero of Ferelden from his traditional right unless Soren lets her, and he'd better not. He could have lectured her eight ways past Wintersend if he'd only opened his mouth today."

Zevran paused in his munching to consider what was said, weighed it against what he was pretty sure Nathaniel meant, and then kicked his feet like a child where they were dangling from the stone wall.

"Let me handle the issue, perhaps?" He suggested, and then tugged on the paper wrap between them to offer the last of the fish cakes to the Warden. Nathaniel looked like he may pout at the suggestion of patience, but he took the food and was quick to polish it off in the cold sun. The Warden gestured with the last piece of it between his fingers as Zevran gathered up the rest of the wrappers and stained papers.

"We should have bought him one of these." The subject kindly changed back to the topic of food and flavours. Zevran quite enjoyed the simple chatter and conversation that filled the rest of their urban afternoon.

Bann Talbind was the young, honourable, and very agreeable man Soren had placed in charge of Amaranthine City after the Thaw. His grand house was found in the North Quarter of the city overlooking the steep and steady decline from the high land down to the deep harbour waters. The Bann kept a good and comfortable household and Zevran was familiar enough with his fine armour and distinct facial tattoo that the servants and guards only saluted and stepped aside for him and Nathaniel.

The Warden escorted him back but then left again shortly after, a list of simple errands to run for his sister and wife tucked in his hand as he departed. Zevran's only task was to quietly confirm that yes, the Arl had indeed returned to the house some hours ago from his jaunt around the city. Not wanting to intrude on him too soon, Zevran quietly went up to the guest apartments to wait for him.

And wait for him.

And wait longer still without intruding on him, because Soren had the right to his own time and space without Zevran hovering over him every minute of the hour. If only he would have hurried up a little though, because it was quite boring having nothing to do and no one to bother.

Soren dined with Bann Talbind without returning to the rooms first, giving Zevran every reason to scoff a little when his friend finally did come back. Not only had he skipped Zevran's company all day, but he was reeking of frankincense and cloves, two things that were certainly not on the Bann's menu.

"If you're going to tell me you've spent all day praying in Talbind's private sanctuary," he lectured from his place reclined on the couch by the fire. "Then I promise not to snitch to Morrigan about it." She would get a laugh out of it, no doubt, but not for the right reasons.

Soren huffed at him. He'd traded his robes and armour for a fine white linen shirt and gold threaded doublet. The soft boots and trousers matched the honey brown of the gloves hiding his scarred hands. The only violence his outfit did not cover was the missing inch off his right ear, but he was a Grey Warden who had survived a Blight and countless battles after it, so scars were expected. Surprisingly, with his soft features and wide blue eyes he had almost completely avoided any battle-marks that would have disfigured his face. He had, what most in Antiva or Orlais would have said, a very _pretty_ face.

Hmm, no. Between elves or not it was still an uncomfortable word.

"I was not praying." Soren announced in short order, pulling Zevran back to now with his low voice. Zevran gave a smile and rubbed his hands together like a greedy imp.

" _Scheming?_ " he crooned, and watched Soren remove his gloves with a scoff. The firelight quickly picked out the jagged red marks cut across his knuckles and swirling over his palms as he dropped the gloves on a nearby table. His pale hands looked raw from the years of abuse but they were still whole. They blushed in the light but were not tender.

"No."

" _Not_ scheming?" Zevran cried out in his disappointment, then sat up on the couch. "Then at least allow me to aid you in the formation of a plan to encourage the Grand Cleric to amend today's decision."

"I'm tired, Zevran. No." This attitude was not like him. He had taken the time to calm himself and reflect, he should have been ready to do something about what had happened now.

"Tomorrow then." Tomorrow, after Soren had rested and let today's emotional upset calm and the indignity settle into ire. Yes, tomorrow he would wake up in a foul mood and Zevran would be there to help him bring his frustrations to bear fruit for them.

"Tomorrow we leave for home." Um… "I've already made arrangements with Talbind and his household." Zevran closed his book, set it aside, and stood.

"What about the Grand Cleric?" He asked. Perhaps it was misdirection then, retreat but only until they came back with something strong enough to sway or remove her from power? There was always the slim chance that Zevran would be asked to creep out from behind the Warden Commander and do what his upbringing had lent much experience to. Soren ran a bloodless court whenever he was able and this would not be the time for carelessness. His reasons would run a little thin given Brona's impressive record tending the city and the Arling, but Zevran's morals were more flexible than his friend's.

While Zevran pondered the integrity of Our Lady Redeemer's defenses, Soren had his arms up and was undoing the buttons on the back of his doublet. He had to inch the garment up to reach enough of them to free his shoulders, and then he simply pulled the entire thing up over his blond head, shaking his fair hair out where it was cut short about his ears. He finished with the wealthy vest by pulling it the right way out again and undoing the rest of the buttons properly, and all the while did not look at Zevran.

"What about her?" He asked, giving his head another shake and then the most casual drag of his hand through his loose, soft hair.

"Your wedding?" Zevran prompted, quashing the sudden dread that sprouted in him.

"The wedding is off, Zevran. Good night." _What?_ Don't say that so calmly!

"Soren-" The apartment was four private rooms joined to a communal salon where Zevran had spent his evening alone. Soren was through one of the doors and had it shut before Zevran could catch him. The handle refused to flex thanks to the lock, and he slapped his palm against the thick wood. "Soren!"

No answer.

"If this is one of your schemes then it's not a funny one!" He complained loudly through the door. "Very well! Have it your way, we will leave tomorrow morning and I will inform Nathaniel of it when he returns, but he won't be pleased." Nothing. No response, he was stubborn like that. "I am not pleased either." Say something. "You wanted this: fight for it!"

Silence.

Zevran retreated from the fight, yes, but this was not over. This was _not_ over.

He spent that night in Amaranthine City angrier over the issue with the Grand Cleric than he knew he should have been. But he was angry. He went to sleep angry and he woke up feeling the same way: angry. He was too bitter to speak properly.

Soren did not reveal his plan for the entire half-day ride from Amaranthine to Vigil's Keep, and Zevran was beginning to doubt he even _had_ a plan. If the Arl would not speak his mind then Zevran would not chase after him for it. He kept his eyes on the rolling road and the sweeping green hills and ignored both Wardens completely.

Vigil's Keep was Soren's seat of power in Amaranthine. She was a monolith of blue-black granite which pierced the cloudy sky from within two mighty sets of walls. Her grey Warden banners danced in the rainy wind, gold Amaranthine tassels fluttering as the three of them rode in through the wide open gates which led to the settlement's damp market.

It was still active and noisy in the coming rain, but the prospect of cold water soaking their wares was encouraging many of the merchants and sellers to pack up for the day, and many of the market-goers were quickly finishing their own business. Three horses with a standard of their Arl drew less attention than normal, meaning it was a quick but cold return home for them.

Soren was called away immediately upon arrival to see to something among his militia: the Silver Order of Amaranthine. His Captain Renth took him away so quickly Zevran found himself chewing on his tongue in irritation. How long was he going to avoid this issue? It was not settled. Zevran would not let it be settled.

If he had to go upstairs and yell through Morrigan's eluvian until she heard him and came back, he'd do it. This was not settled.

He let Soren have his space, have his day, and have his time. Zevran turned to a matter that was less pressing but equally important to him: a letter from Denerim.

" _Tio Zevran,"_ he brushed his fingertips over the address in the first line, smiling fondly at the crooked script that followed. " _I took your advice and Ser Bronwin's squire was sick for three days with a horrible chill, but he's recovering again as I write this so he should be wiser about stealing food from me in the future. I even thanked him for sparing me from the pains he went through! That may have been a mistake as I'm almost certain His Majesty realized what I'd done, but he hasn't punished me yet, only made me sit through more of his Warden tales._

 _Tio, what His Majesty says about my father in the Brecellian forest isn't true, is it? I've never met Keeper Lanaya, and I can't for a moment imagine my father cowering from anything, let alone a small dragon in the ruins._

 _Please write again soon. I know father will tell her as well, but if mother comes to the Vigil to visit please tell her I miss her but I'm alright in Denerim. I've had no dreams like the ones I used to get, and the pain is just from lifting those heavy shields and irons the King makes me practice with._

 _With Love,_

 _Kieran."_

Zevran kissed the letter, folded it carefully and slipped it down through one of the pockets of his armour close to his heart. The father was incorrigible but his son was a treasure Zevran missed seeing about the Vigil. The keep was much too quiet without his antics these days, but he was well and Zevran was in much better spirits as he pondered his reply. He had not yet been in Soren's company for their exploits in the Brecellian forest, so he would admit as much and then proceed to make up an embarrassing lie to spite his friend's terrible attitude. If Alistair was already filling Kieran's head with unlikely adventures, then Zevran would find a way to one-up him.

What good Kieran's letter did to raise his spirits was spoiled completely by the conversation that evening at dinner. The meal did not begin well.

"Are you going to stop being so miserable now?" Soren's comment spoiled the flavour of the rich soup and bread from his kitchen. "We have more important things to worry about."

"I think that _this_ is an important thing to worry about, don't you?"

"I do not." Soren took a mouthful of cream and lamb before tearing a piece of his bread off to dip.

"Soren, there is a declaration from the Divine _herself_ on your desk granting you the right to marry your chosen love. _Why_ are you letting Brona take this from you?"

"The decision was never mine, Zevran." Yes it _was!_ "I asked the Grand Cleric and she said _no_."

"She had no _right_ to say no!" Zevran shouted, and he kept his hands from banging the table by only a breath. When Soren came out with it, finally all of it, it just made him _angrier!_

"I will not embarrass myself or the Arling by having the Revered Mother of Vigil's Keep officiate a sham here in the castle instead of the cathedral where the ceremony belongs." Soren's voice was stiff, his shoulders set, his food ignored in front of him. "I am not going to go through the expense and extravagance of a wedding only to have it annulled by the Grand Cleric and then dragged through the mud to Val Royeaux to give Leliana another headache. The wedding is off and Morrigan will only laugh and taunt me when she hears why."

"You _deserve_ to be taunted!" He said, heat rumbling in the back of his throat. " _Coward_. Where is my friend? Why are you running away from this?" Soren's gaze was dark and sharp upon him, his voice _hissing_ back with:

"I am not about to _embarrass_ myself-"

" _You are not the only elf in Thedas, you ass!_ " Zevran stood because he was ready to fight about this. He was _willing_ to argue, unlike the elf across the table from him! "You're an Arl _and_ a Hero! You're one of the most powerful elves in fucking Thedas, and you are _not_ going to let the Chantry bully you without a fight!"

"That is _not_ your decision."

"Then who is going to stand in your place?" Zevran cut at him with words. Don't sit there frosty and cold, you ass! Fight back! " _Velanna?_ You're going to send a Blight-scarred Dalish runaway Warden with her disgraced once-noble husband in your place? Is _that_ your alternative?"

"Are you really going to act like Morrigan's Chasind background is any better-?"

" _YES! I am!_ " He made his friend flinch, actually _flinch,_ and his temper hurt even more. Why was he not _fighting?_ "Morrigan was Arcane Advisor to both _Empress Celene_ and the Inquisition! You have a _son_ together who is King Alistair's _squire_. Soren, if you publicly back down from this and refuse to throw your weight against the Chantry to _help Leliana help the elves_ , then nothing is going to change. _Nothing_."

"Why does this matter to you?" Soren's question shocked him. _What?_ " _Help the elves?_ Brona doesn't give _damn_ that my ears are too long and my stature too small, Zevran, it just flavours the arguments she can use against me for being a _mage_."

Zevran's eyes went crossed so he closed them, he felt a shiver start behind his knees and shoot straight up to his shoulders. _What?_

"I was there in the Chantry with you when she _fed you that garbage about Shartan!_ " He shouted! "Of course it has everything to do with you being an _elf!_ She challenged you herself to bring her an _el'vhen_ bride and she'd marry you on the _spot!_ "

"That was a _taunt,_ Zevran!" Good! Get on your damn feet and argue with him properly! "Magic is meant to _what_ mankind, and never to _what was it again_ over him? She's hated me since I first set foot in Amaranthine!"

"Because you're an elf!"

"Because I'm a mage!"

" _Tell me_ why you won't fight her!" Zevran yelled his plea, " _Tell me_ , before you mark yourself a coward!"

His bold claim halted his friend's words. Soren caught himself like he was going to choke, his anger a falsehood that melted away from him so he stood there looking smaller than he should have. Zevran was the taller of them, yes, but Soren should never have _shrunk_ just from being challenged. Had he not been there in the chantry with him Zevran might have feared Brona had actually _done_ something to him. Where was this weakness even coming from? Why was he like this? Why wouldn't he _speak?_

"Soren," because his friend did not answer him as fast as he should have. Zevran moved forward and with both hands took his friend by the wrists, hurt but hiding it when he felt Soren resist his touch. He forced his friend and brother to look at him before going on. "I will follow you _anywhere_. I love you, you know this, and we all know that you and Morrigan _cannot_ live apart. You love her the way the stars love the moon and the sun loves the sea and as the Maker loved Andraste. Brother, you almost lost your son and it nearly killed you, you went to _war_ to bring Kieran and Morrigan back safely to the Vigil. If you won't fight for them this time, Brother, then I need to know _why._ I cannot follow if you will not show me the way."

Look at him, explain it to him. Why was the proudest man in Ferelden backing down without a fight? Why was he running away from a problem without even attempting to use his silver words? He had convinced Alistair to destroy House Guerrin's precedence and standing, why wouldn't he even engage the Grand Cleric in the _discussion_ , not even an outright challenge, about his own marriage?

"Soren _please._ " He wasn't looking at him, Soren's eyes were focused on nothing at all until he moved and pulled his hands away.

"I will not explain myself," if he meant to say it with strength or volume then he failed at both, but at least he pried his eyes up and _looked_ at him. "Not to you, not to anyone."

"Soren,"

"No." His eyes were hard, they were clear and cold and judging. "Get out."

"Brother-"

" _Out._ "

Zevran took a slow step back, held the position, and when Soren didn't yield or change his mind then yes, Zevran left the room.

He left the salon and found the empty corridor weaving through the Vigil, wandering his way down to the lower floors. Somewhere along the way he decided on a poor course of action and detoured for the kitchens, ignoring the working staff still clearing away the dishes from the Warden and servant mess halls. He found the larder, moved down the musty ladder to the wine cellar, and picked a bottle at random.

He brought that back up with him without comment and walked until he found the room he wanted, in the lower wing he wanted. He knocked and found the one person in the Keep who had known Soren almost as long as Zevran standing behind in the doorway. Zevran showed him the bottle with a tight, tired look on his face.

"Care for an evening drink, Constable?"

Oghren stared at him for a few moments, then at the bottle, then back at him. His thick red beard was unbound and brushed out, the warm light of the fire and a trill of childish laughter following him. He wore no armour tonight, just a thick brown tunic of woven wool and comfortable trousers and boots.

"Lemme put the nuglet back to bed first an' then sure, elf. Better than you drownin' yourself in it all alone."

"You're too kind, Oghren. Where shall we-?"

"Get in here and take a seat, I ain't getting' pissed up on the battlements in this rain." That was… very warm of him. "Cards're on the table next ta the kid's flute. Shuffle and deal while I get him settled." How domestic… it reminded him keenly of the letter tucked in his armour.

"Thank you, my friend."

He spent the night with Oghren's family, talking to the stubborn old dwarf of things that were not to leave this room. Oghren let him talk, and let him worry, and made sure his glass never went empty for very long. Somewhere along the way he lost his grip on his languages, but that was alright: he'd said plenty already.

"Sleep it off, Zev." A couch, the burning fire, a soft blanket tossed over his wine-warmed head. "Surana'll come around, he always does."

" _But he won't even talk,"_ Zevran slurred in his mother tongue, the pretty words and pretty wounds and lovely intonations all falling flat. " _Silver-tongued fool won't even open his mouth, won't explain, won't won't won't…"_

" _Dafka,_ elf _._ That's old dwarven for _go the fuck to sleep._ "

" _Dafka, Oghren…"_ He meant to say thank you, all he got was laughter.

And he slept.

* * *

 **Leave a comment below!**


	4. The Cost of Sleep

**Saturn, The Dalish Encampment, Hurts Like Hell**

 **:D**

* * *

 _ **Echoes of Arlathan**_

The Cost of Sleep

Four days passed between the Warden Commander's return to Vigil's Keep and its impact on Jylan's routine. Otherwise, there was no change.

He awoke before dawn, he dressed himself in the dark. He prepared the workshop and broke his nightly fast, collected his hound from the kennelmaster and made his deliveries before first bell. He returned to the workshop and consulted the ledger for the day's work, and at the mid-day bell took his hour of leisure.

One of the methods used to cope with Connor's absence from Vigil's Keep was the open availability of certain items. Most of the Vigil's denizens did not take well with the notion of dealing with Jylan personally, and not everything could be comfortably written into a ledger that would then be read by every other person who came to add a requisition to his list. The ledger itself was another method of both record keeping and reducing the frequency of people stopping Jylan's work to ask him questions or make derisive comments towards him. It had been Connor's idea. It was a good one.

As had been the practice in the guild hall Jylan had lived in prior to his appointment to Vigil's Keep, one counter was allotted space to simply hold items of frequent use and sensitive need. Unlike the guild hall however, the items provided by the workshop were distributed without cost. It was only a matter of preventing a single person from leaving with eight of every item.

The stocks included: a stack of quarter-pound bars of soap, each individually wrapped and clearly labelled, along with pots of tooth powder, leather oil, and steel polish. Bottles of standard black ink were replenished along with the red poultices favoured by the Grey Wardens and Silver Order soldiers. Lard bars for healing cracked and dried skin were placed a few spots down from the soap as to avoid confusion. Balms for lips were placed in smaller pots beside those.

As for sensitive items, several pots of cream for common rashes and blisters were available, along with prepared powders for difficulties ranging from indigestion to the removal of pests and lice. The most hesitantly requested item and therefore most necessary to have a place on the counter were small pots of fatty oils mixed to form a light cream: to relieve chafing and provide intimate lubrication. Connor himself had nearly broken his healer's implicit code of non-judgement the first time that request had found its bashful way to him, but Jylan's only view on the matter was that the wooden pots, once emptied, should be returned to the workshop. There was a large basket left out explicitly for this purpose.

His mornings were primarily for the filling of requisitions made the day before for delivery on the following morning. The shift of work from midday to evening was often involved with restoring the depleted stacks of available materials.

"You do good work for the Vigil." He was boiling witch hazel mulch for bottling tomorrow, stirring the rolling cauldron with a long wooden paddle. It was not wise for him to speak when working however this would be his final task for the day. "Do all of the Tranquil know herbalism and chemistry as you do, or did you take a special interest in it?" The brew was sufficiently mixed. He withdrew the paddle from the steaming cauldron and placed it in the sink for washing, then turned to answer the speaker.

"My position was assigned by then-Formari Quartermaster Owain of Kinloch Hold." He told her.

Warden Velanna Howe had walked a long path from her Dalish Clan, to the Grey Wardens, down far into the Dwarven Deep Roads, and back again to Vigil's Keep. Her entire body was lined with scars of Blight, but she exhibited no other symptoms of advanced corruption or decay. Her elven ears were blackened along the tips and curled in a manner which often suggested pain to him, but she denied this assumption. Her hands and mouth were deeply lined with black, and it obscured the pattern of both her valasslin and the twisted images tattooed across the back of her hand and fingers- the dedication proving her marriage to Warden Nathaniel Howe a summer ago.

She was one of the Vigil's few mages. She was his friend.

"Did he give any particular reason?" She was standing by the counter of offered goods, and had taken one of the parcels of soap to her nose to test the scent. He had included an extract of honey after receiving both a request and a suitable quantity of raw comb.

"My abilities with lyrium and enchantment were deemed insufficient and costly to the Circle." He answered her question.

"I've seen you enchant items before," she sought to correct him. She had misunderstood his answer. "Not often, but I thought that was just the lack of lyrium in the Keep stopping you."

"I am capable of laying enchantments on suitable items," he clarified his meaning. "However, there was a quality the Chantry deemed lacking from my work after I was made tranquil, and thus I was relegated to other tasks."

"So the Chantry decided and not your Quartermaster?"

"I was not privy to the nuances of such decisions as they were undertaken by the Circle administration." He told her. "As one of the Tranquil it was never my right to question such directives, and it is unlikely that Quartermaster Owain experienced greater freedom despite his heightened responsibilities. However, now that he is Guildmaster in Amaranthine, such decisions are wholly his own."

"So could you change specializations now if you chose to?" He considered the matter briefly before answering.

"My contract with Vigil's Keep is reliant on my skills and abilities as a chemist and apothecary, _Hah'ren_ Howe." He explained. "If you mean to imply that the dedicated study and increased practice of enchantment would be of greater benefit than my current role, then it is a matter better brought before the Seneschal. Do you anticipate a growing need for a skilled Formari within the keep?" His question caused a look of surprise to cross her face and he was unclear as to the reason for it.

"You _are_ a skilled Formari, _dah'len."_

"The term _formari_ is a loan word from Tevene, much like the title _Hah'ren_ from El'vhen." It was reasonable to anticipate that she would grow annoyed with his explanation, but he persisted so as to make his meaning clear to her. "The Formari are ' _they who form lyrium'_. I am one of the Formari for my practical ability to lay enchantments, but I am not skilled in the matter. I will assume that you were referring to my skills as a chemist and compounder, in which case I am a skilled Tranquil. Do you anticipate a growing need for a skilled Formari within the keep?" He repeated his question so as to deflect any unpleasant experience of her annoyance, and also to ascertain an answer.

"No, I don't." She did not respond to him with irritation, but rather with a tight and clipped voice followed by the way she closed her eyes and released a breath. She was exasperated with his lacking ability to converse with others. He understood.

"You were merely making conversation with me." She looked at him with a deep frown and worried eyes. "I apologize for my literal assumption of your meaning. Thank you for the compliment."

"You're welcome, Jylan." Her voice was heavy but not unkind. "Don't worry, I have no more questions about the Tranquil tonight. You should go make sure you have something to eat."

"The evening bell has not yet rung, _Hah'ren._ "

"But you've nothing else to do?" She did not seem to understand his obligation to remain. "You said yourself you finished your ledger and prepared all the tasks you could for tomorrow, you've swept, I watched you wipe down your counters, and that fire is nearly burnt out already."

"The evening bell has not yet rung, _Hah'ren_."

"But-" There was a knock behind her. They both looked.

When he saw the other elf he straightened and used both hands to draw his hood up, the front piece falling over the tranquil brand burned into his skin. His hands dropped and crossed at the wrists over his chest, fingers gently pinched together. He bowed.

"Arl Surana," he said.

"Warden Commander." Velanna saluted with a fist to her heart, she was no longer leaning against the counter.

"At ease, Warden." The Warden Commander's voice was measured and even. He entered the workshop and Jylan kept his head bowed as he had not been addressed yet. "Compounder Ansera." That was his address. He straightened and let his arms fall.

The Warden Commander stood with his hands behind his back. He wore the gold robes of an Archmage and they framed his small self with pride, the colour making his pale hair appear nearly white in contrast. Where An'eth was strong and breath shorter than Jylan, and Velanna was slender but tall, the Warden Commander was much smaller by comparison to any of them. Surana's blue eyes searched the room briefly, then he spoke.

"Compounder, I may have the wrong of things." He spoke in a simple, even timbre. "Is the workshop still open?"

"Until the bell in a few minutes, your grace." The answer displeased him. His eyes tightened, and his mouth resisted a scowling grimace before he spoke again.

"Show me your ledger." He stated, dropping his eyes and sweeping the wiped down table with his gaze. Jylan turned and procured the book from the counter behind him. "What is that awful smell?"

"Witch hazel, your grace." For many months Connor had used his personal book of notations for the workshop ledger, but that had been deemed a waste of the book's pages and the Vigil's Healer and Apothecary had ordered this book before his departure for the Anderfels. Inside of it were many printed pages of even boxes and collumns, and the book itself was much wider and longer than the spell-book locked into one of the cabinets in this room. Jylan presented the red leather book to the Warden Commander, and opened it to the correct page.

"Ink and something to write with?" Jylan procured those items from the same counter, Surana did not look at him as he did so and Velanna did not speak. He took the quill and gave a dismissive gesture with the feathered end of it. "Resume your conversation, Ansera. I will not linger." Jylan had no further tasks for the evening but retreated by a step so he could not be accused of reading over the Arl's shoulder. He watched the Warden Commander rest a hand on the table and dip the quill before writing.

When he was finished he capped the ink, nodded briefly to Velanna, and then departed.

"Does the Commander come to you often?" She asked him quickly when Surana had gone.

"No." He had no further tasks for the evening and remained where he was.

"Are… aren't you curious what he wrote?" She asked with more urgency this time, and he answered her in full.

"That it is a curiosity does not escape me," he told her. "However, I am not compelled to act on that information. I will refer to the ledger and determine its priority amongst the other requests awaiting my attention tomorrow."

" _Dah'len_ , you can't just put off a request from Surana."

"It was not my intention to suggest as much." Communication was a difficult thing, she had already grown frustrated with him once. "If it is a request which may require several days to complete then I will make necessary preparations. However, that does not mean that for the following hours I will allow other priorities to remain unattended. Such behaviour would cause the workshop to grind to a halt, and I would be removed from my position and returned to the Guildsmen."

"That's not what I meant." She crossed the workshop and touched his arm, he felt her pull at his wrist. Her gesture was meant to convey weight and severity but this was not a severe matter "About doing nothing else, I mean. That's not what I meant. But don't-" she let her eyes grow heavy again with a regret he could see but not soothe. "You're not a thing on loan from your guild. Don't talk about yourself like you're some replaceable part."

"You are correct," he told her. "I am not a thing, but I am Tranquil as well as elven. If I were to lose my position at Vigil's Keep by mismanaging my obligations then I would undoubtedly return to the guildsmen to sustain myself."

"You have a family," she said, and the strength of her words was apparent to him despite their ineffective nature. "You could go to them." Brothers and sisters in the Gwaren Alienage, those who had not been born with the curse of magic nor sent to Kinloch Hold as he had.

"As the result of my condition, _Hah'ren_ , I would be unlikely to secure employment to help sustain that family. I would return to the guildsmen instead."

"You could join the _Dalish_." She was sharp with him. It was unpleasant to listen to despite his certainty that her temper would not break over him. "An'eth's Keeper would help you, An'eth herself would go with you in a heartbeat: I know she would."

"Although hypothetically true, I believe the surest and safest course of action would be to remain engaged with my present contract to Vigil's Keep." He said, and then the fortress bell began to toll. It was a soft, echoing sound from this low quarter of the keep but still distinct over their voices. The work day was officially over. "That is the bell, _Hah'ren_ , I am now free to take your suggestion and collect my evening meal."

"That's a crap subject change, Jylan." He did not give an answer to this statement. His poor conversational skills were well established. He was prepared for how she took her leave. He was prepared for the touch on the back of his hood that inclined his head, and the sensitive pain when she touched her forehead against the brand on his own.

" _Dareth shiral_ , _dah'len_. Go and eat."

She left and he followed, calling Dirthamen out from under the table where the hound had fallen asleep. He locked the workshop door and took the hound to the kennels where one of the master's assistants was ready to take Dirth away with a sleepy yawn for exercise and dinner. Then he returned to the kitchens.

Vegetable soup with many chunks of carrot and onion and potatoes and lamb fat collected and cast off from the Grey Wardens' meals upstairs. Hot fresh bread with a scoop of butter. Half a pint of ale topped off with water to avoid intoxication. It was not yet his day to bathe, therefore he went from dinner to his chamber and lit the brazier. He hung up the blue and white robes, returned the keys to their box, removed his quartz guild ring, and placed the wooden amulet back into its place between the other two items. He washed his face and arms, and then took the bowl and pitcher to change the water for tomorrow morning. His room was warm when he returned and he unbraided his hair, combed it out, and read a few pages of the book lent to him by Lady Rowan, Connor's sister and Commander Surana's apprentice. It was an apprentice's book of magical theory, and she had requested that he help her understand the concepts despite the Archmage's daily attention to her education.

He slept. He awoke. He did it all again.

Once he and Dirthame returned from making his deliveries to the Vigil, he turned the apothecary ledger around on the table and found the line marked by Commander Surana's hand last night. The Commander had very neat, controlled script, and he had clearly inked yesterday's date, his name, and when he expected the order to be fulfilled.

It was a request for a sleeping draught.

Surana wanted embrium.

* * *

"I do not understand." This was unbelievable. Of all the people Soren expected would come to him with a challenge against his orders or his intentions in a day, the _last_ person who should have appeared before him was a Tranquil. Yet here he was. "Your grace has intimate knowledge and experience of embrium and its effects on the body. I do not understand your purpose in requesting that reagent specifically."

"Because it _works_ , Ansera." They were on the bottom floor of the Vigil's library. It was not an expansive or terribly impressive collection, but it was more comfortable for the study of magic than Soren's own apartments higher up in the Keep. Rowan, his young apprentice, preferred it to the salon up in his chambers. The minor change of scene did not bother him and the girl was gone now, dismissed from his presence to have the rest of the afternoon for her own leisure.

What did bother him was the Tranquil. His temper was not to be taunted like this, over something so simple, and Soren was holding on to it tightly to keep it from catching into an open flame of anger. He would manage this; he would not be brought down by one nosy Tranquil that had no business questioning him.

"There are alternative recipes." Stubborn, irritating thing.

"Then prepare any of them," he told the failed mage in the shortest tone he could muster. "But I'm warning you, Compounder: if I wake up at any point between taking the draught and the predawn hour, it will be a grave mark against the reputation responsible for keeping you employed here." The Tranquil was quiet for a moment.

"I understand, your grace." Flat tone, no feeling, no _life_. Just his dead green eyes half-lidded under the crinkled red skin scarred by the brand that had taken his soul away.

"I will not tolerate being poisoned by mistake either," Soren warned him again. "Embrium is the safest and most effective option, and that's what I expect." Deathroot had a hideous aftertaste to it and snowdrops were too rare and costly to go wasting on simple sleeping potions. If Soren woke up with his limbs frozen from the snowdrops' numbing properties, then he would have Ansera packed up and thrown out of the keep by his own hands once the paralysis wore off. If his insides were a knot of pain from an overdose of deathroot tomorrow morning, then the same fate would befall the Tranquil.

The only misstep of Connor's entire career in the Grey Wardens thus far was bringing a Tranquil back to Vigil's Keep. If Ansera poisoned him, Soren was kicking the failed mage back to Amaranthine and would expect Connor to just _deal with it_ when he returned.

"I understand, your grace. There will be no mistakes."

"Good. Have the mixture sent to my apartments this evening: I am competent to add hot water to herbs without assistance."

"Yes, your grace."

The Tranquil left with no more arguments. Soren was able to get on with his day.

It was difficult when he was this tired. He was not used to having to struggle for sleep. As a mage his mind rarely found deep and dreamless rest naturally, but the simple act of falling asleep was precisely that: simple. How could students of the Circle study the Fade if they couldn't enter it? Mages had to know how to calm their bodies and rest even when their minds would be kept active and engaged in the realm of dreams, but that was also what wards of protection and safekeeping were for. Spells that could keep his mind from slipping into the Fade at night were second-nature to him. Even the Dalish Keepers had enchanted garments for sleeping and designs inside their aravels that served the same purpose, and lyrium-woven bed-curtains were the in-style bedroom accessory in Tevinter according to Morrigan.

Soren's problems did not linger in the Fade.

He could not sleep. He could settle and drift off for an hour or two, yes, but then something would wake him up. Soren had attempted for several nights to go without his wards in the hopes that engaging himself in the Fade would let his body just rest, but it had not helped. He would enter the Fade and find the companionship of his spirit, Duty, but then in mid-conversation he would feel himself being dragged awake. He would be back in his bed with his heart hammering and his nerves frazzled, no explanation at all for the disturbance, and then would not be able to settle back down.

It was not a magical affliction, it could not be. It was not his Calling either: he felt nothing of the taint or the darkspawn. No songs, no singing, no resonance with something far, far beneath the Vigil.

He had tried exhausting himself with magical exercises and excessive spell-casting in Morrigan's laboratory down the hall from their bedroom. He had put himself through several days of rigorous exercise with the other Warden mages to make sure he was physically worn out enough to sleep. He had read the most boring treatises in bed trying to knock himself out. He had, in a regrettable move last night after going too late to Connor's workshop for help, consumed a large quantity of alcohol and then had to lay in a spinning bed as it slowly transformed into a lingering hangover.

He needed to sleep. Soren absolutely had to be able to sleep. He was trying to put together the logistics behind a journey to Orzammar and an expedition into the Deep Roads on top of his usual obligations. He could not lose sleep now and even if he only got one good night's rest from Ansera's draught then that, to him, would be enough. Once he broke this restless cycle he would be just fine.

"You are not going into the Roads."

Or if he broke Zevran's incessant need to _nag at him…_

"Why? _Why?_ Why is this such an issue to you?" Soren was at his desk this time, in his apartments, surrounded by his books and his missives and his letters and his maps and his pain-in-the-ass best friend. He dropped his elbow on the stone desk and dragged his scarred fingers over his eyes, letting his face rest in his palm. "If you hate the idea so much, then don't come."

"Oh, I am _coming_ with you," Zevran challenged him in a vicious tone that Soren just didn't have the stamina to take seriously tonight. "The day you get me to stop following you into stupid places is the day the Blight finally gets to me down there."

"Saying things like that only encourages me to leave you behind," he drawled into his hand.

"You would not _dare_." Zevran had been out for most of the day. Soren didn't know where. He hadn't asked. Soren didn't even know where _he_ had been, he was so tired.

"True, I wouldn't, but that doesn't make it a bad idea." They had not clashed again since their fight several nights ago, but they hadn't discussed it either. Soren dearly hoped that his friend was not going to trend the discussion that way tonight. He was not obliged.

"Soren, I mean it: you are not going into the Deep Roads." _Maker's Mercy, Zevran…_

"And why not?"

"Because I'm not going to let you turn tail and run away!" Soren shut his eyes, tossed his pen on the desk, and used both hands to hold his face so he didn't let his head drop flat over the letters in front of him. He didn't want to look at Zevran, he didn't want to look at _anyone_ , he just wanted to sleep.

"From what?" He groaned.

"From whatever this issue is you've got going on with the Chantry."

"The issue is that I have not slept properly in several days, Zevran. If I have to go without sleep then it might as well be someplace where the affliction is useful." Like the Deep Roads. No matter how many people you went with or how well-prepared you were for the expedition, it was never wise to sleep too deep or comfortably in the crumbled dwarven ways.

"Oh, and I'm sure thoughts of the Grand Cleric have had _nothing_ to do with this."

"If you're asking if I've seen her image appear in the Fade, you'll be pleased to know I've yet to stay there long enough to see _anything_." He explained this from behind his hands, and then with a deep breath made himself sit up and look down bleary-eyed at his desk. He wanted to sleep. His back hurt and his shoulders ached. He had dealt with the slow grogginess of a reduced hang-over for most of the day. Soren wanted his bed and his rest.

Zevran left the office muttering something about Soren seeing his fist in the Fade to answer the firm knock at the adjoining salon's main door. Soren couldn't make himself read another word of what was in front of him, he just piled the assortment of papers into two piles: _'I don't care'_ and _'I care even less_ '. He was on his feet and rubbing his own tired back with one hand when Zevran came back with a sour face and a paper pouch.

"Al _right_ ," he said with an annoyed trill through the word, and then handed over the pouch. "Fine. I will cease to bother you on the matter of sleep. Anything that sends _you_ into the arms of a Formari chemist is actually a problem."

"How considerate, Master Arainai."

"Why is it so hard for you to accept that I just want you to be happy?" Soren shut his eyes and gave a heavy sigh on purpose. Stop. "You can win this fight, you can have this marriage, just _say something_."

"How about this:" He said, too tired for anger and just wishing this topic _done_. "Morrigan is as Andrastian as I am Dalish. I can shower her in silks and jewels with or without being married to her, and she only ever brought it up to help Kieran whose standing would hardly change because Amaranthine isn't like the other Arlings anymore. It's been fifteen years, Zevran, we have our ways and we're content with them."

"You've never been content with anything in your entire life." He could have at least had the decency to say it with some fire, not that sad hum that made his soft brown eyes look so sad. Zevran's sigh was not as fatigued as Soren's, but it was enough before he nodded to the herbs. "What did Ansera prescribe?"

Soren tugged the mouth of the pouch open with his thumb, giving the small packet a few shakes to see what was inside. Several tightly furled yellow blossoms, assorted grainy yellow bits, finely shredded green, and finally… a chalky grey powder. Embrium.

"Jasmine flowers, what could be fennel, mint, and embrium powder."

"And _what_ powder?" Soren gave him a sharp look for that shocked tone. "I didn't know the Vigil still _had_ that in store. Is this just because Connor is gone?"

"Hardly." He dismissed the idea outright. "He takes that workshop very seriously, Zevran. Connor told me himself he wouldn't handicap their work by refusing to work with such a basic reagent. He simply won't let it grow around the keep and lets Ansera handle it on his own." Warden Guerrin had every reason to hate and despise the herb that had nearly killed him, but he was a rational man and a good mage who had learned not to let his fears control him.

"But you're _sure_ that this is-?"

"Zevran, it's one night's dose." He _scolded_ now, stop this. "If it doesn't work, I won't try it again. If it does work, then I'll only use it when I _must_."

This did not satisfy him but frankly Soren was out of options. Water was heated and the herbs steeped and then stirred into a cup shortly before they both retired for the night, and Zevran's unease remained as something Soren just could not convince him to let go of. Not for card games, not for talk of politics, not for anything: he would not let it go.

Embrium worked quickly, and for this reason Soren chose to take the potion with him when he retired to bed. He could undress and cast his wards as the drink cooled on Morrigan's empty vanity near the bed. He could stretch his shoulders and back, and washed his face, arms, and neck with warm water to wind down after the day. The last thing he could think of before drinking the potion was to quietly rifle through the drawers and compartments of Morrigan's vanity.

It held some make-up on it, yes, but admittedly not much. Most of it, the vast majority, held the jewels Soren had commented on briefly to Zevran. Ropes of emeralds that had hung from her wrists, a chain of silver knots to decorate her throat, rings of abundant colour and lustre… Hm, she did not own any pearls? He wasn't looking for that _reason_ but the absence struck him. He would have to correct that at some point.

Ah, he found what he wanted. A small crystal bottle with a dragon's body done in gold and wrapped around it. He didn't know what was actually inside of it beyond what the merchant from Val Royeaux always waxed poetic about when Soren traded gold for more of it, but Morrigan delighted in it. It made _him_ think of red wine and cherries, but Maker Only Knew what it actually was. She would dab it on her wrists and throat when she was home with him in the Vigil and Soren was allowed to miss her. He was tired, disappointed, annoyed with Zevran's pestering, and he was allowed to miss his would-have-been bride…

A drop of it on one of the pillows on the bed. If it stained the silk then no matter, he was the Arl and a pillowcase wouldn't end him.

The jasmine and mint were good for sleep. The yellow herb he thought was fennel didn't taste like fennel, so he just assumed it was that other peculiar flavour that fought to keep back the distinctly metallic tang of the embrium. Between the warmth of the tea and the primary ingredient, Soren felt a slow heat building in his gut before he finished pulling back the covers and sitting on his own bed. Morrigan's silk sheets, a good amaranthine wool comforter, and a quilt from… oh, he didn't care tonight…

His eyes would not stay open, his body felt heavy and relaxed, his mind was protected from the Fade's distractions. He _slept…_

…until he did not.

' _-kill him… going to… I'm gonna kill that stupid…'_ his thoughts were not very organized, but they stopped when he recognized a difference this time.

He was warm, so warm from the bed and the hearth fire and the embrium. He was heavy from sleep but there was a different weight. It crossed his chest, his bare chest, but one of his shoulders was uncovered and there was movement beside him, a presence over him, and- _oh?_

She kissed him. He was stupid and slow and forgot how to kiss back before she did it again. Firm and slow and soft, intentions laid bare by the something that wrapped around his left hand from the heavily scarred finger where his iron ring rested. The ring's partner was close, very close to him, not a thousand miles away in Tevinter chasing rumours and intrigues and putting down dangers. No, she was here.

She was smug and she was possessive, her eager delight to find him warm and asleep was enough to smother whatever was hiding behind those proud emotions through the ring. Morrigan kissed him, mouthed at him expectantly, because she was here. She was here with him. She was _home_.

She was draped across his right side and resting high over him, her hand stroking firm and close down his chest before she reached up and over his torso. She caressed his shoulder and down his arm as her bare chest pressed flush over him. She was home, she'd undressed while he slept, and now she was waking him up in the only way that would let Ansera keep his job in the morning.

And he couldn't _move_.

Oh, he _tried_. His right arm flexed, his elbow forced a bend and his palm found the warm, rolling swell of her soft hip against his. His head would not rise and his lips were slow, clumsy things that let hers control him with heavy, smothering touches. He struggled to pull his hand up from her hip and cradle the small of her back, and his left was heavy and weak when he felt the tender fall of her loose hair and wanted to touch it. His eyes could _barely_ open to look at her… But her skin smelled like her skin and her mouth felt like her mouth and he wanted to just coil his arm around her, roll them over one another in bed, and welcome her home.

' _No-'_ Instead he felt the veil press close and no, no. Absolutely not. He would not fall asleep like _this_. Her lips released his and her face nuzzled against him, but he could still barely open his eyes, let alone keep them that way.

"Should I be insulted or concerned by your lack of enthusiasm?" Her low voice hummed against his cheek. The arm folded on his chest was what she used to brace herself, the other lost behind his shoulder with her hand seeking a place behind his head. Her lips touched the corner of his mouth, the bridge of his nose, and he was _so heavy…_

"… _brium…"_ He slurred the breath. Her body was warm and there was a dampness across her back and hair that said she had bathed first. She'd come home and she'd bathed, and then she'd had enough time to dry her hair because-

"That is not my name," her deep voice tucked against his jaw…

" _Em_ -brium, Morrigan…" He tried again, with more success this time. Her face came up to look at him and if he settled for only having one eye open, he could almost see her in the flickering red firelight.

"Have you been poisoned?" She said it so flat and seriously, as if the mood of the previous moment didn't count anymore. He tried to shake his head but all that happened was he lost sight of her again and a soft sound escaped his throat. She'd pulled down his wards, she didn't like them, and that was the Fade calling… " _Soren._ "

"No…" So hard to talk when the herb was thick in his blood like this… "No poison…" He could have called the taint to help burn through the drug and wake himself up, but the will to do so escaped him. It would please both of them immensely if he could wake up and give her his full and proper attention, but getting there would be uncomfortable and required him working up enough anger to trigger the taint. Getting that angry when warm, comfortable, and partnered with his woman was a tall and aggressive order that he really, honestly, didn't want to go through with…

"Wake up," _No…_ "I said: how many nights have you taken this medicine of yours?"

"First night," he drawled, fingers clumsy over her skin. "Who knows, you might just be a dream." She pinched him, it hurt, he whined about it.

"I prefer you drunk," she announced. "You're practically insatiable when wine is involved." Mm… He would have commented back but she settled over him again with her kisses. He finally found the strength to lift his arm up and thread his fingers through her loose black hair. He brushed the tresses back over her shoulder, stroked her throat and then found the back of her head to hold her close for those deep, moving kisses.

"I'm trying,"

"Try harder." Maker, it was hard to move. She had to help him pull them over into a roll, the bed's pillows catching her under her shoulders and the silk whispering against her skin. Morrigan was smiling when he kissed her again and there was a delighted chuckle that swept warm and easy from her throat before he tilted his head and kissed there too. Her hands crawled down his back, thighs spread and welcoming him to her and… he… just…

"I said _wake up_."

"I'm _drugged…_ " And her throat smelled so nice and the curve of her neck was so alluring and the weight of his body settling down on her just _felt so good…_ She was _home_ …

"Are you _cuddling_ me?"

"No." Yes. Her hair was fanned out beneath her and the silk was softly scented with her perfume, and his eyes would not stay open, and she complained but she held him and stroked her nails through his hair… "This is sex… I know what I'm doing."

"Usually, yes, but not tonight." He was losing his grip again… he could feel himself _sliding…_ "I'm going to hold this against you in the morning, but sleep, my love. _Sleep._ " He…

Thank Andraste, he _slept…_


	5. Out Cold

**Hawke Family Theme, Rogue Heart, Empire of Angels, Room of Angels**

* * *

 _ **Echoes of Arlathan**_

Out Cold

Wake up, rise. Twenty-one push-ups. Thirty sit-ups. Wash face. Comb and braid hair. Dress self.

To the workshop: light the fire, ready the cauldron. To the kitchen: bread, honey, pear. To the workshop: check the ledger, pack the basket. To the kennelmaster: retrieve hound.

It was raining in the dark pre-dawn hour. Loud, heavy, cold rain that drummed hard over rooftops and splashed through gutters into the muddy lanes of the fortress's supply town. The seamstress threatened to have his ears pinched if the wax pellets were not the correct colour. The carpenter chirped and praised his speed at preparing the pail of resin. The draftsmen gave him an unnecessary pouch of coppers to pay for the seven bottles of ink. The Innkeeper took the soap from him without a word.

"By Andraste, boy, you're going to catch your death in this rain!" Midwife Valora would not let him leave until he had finished a hot cup of ginger and apple tea inside her warm hutch. The roof was bent and there was a soft drip of cold water trickling down into a pot on the table, but she went about her business without paying it any mind.

There were many dozens of bundles of herbs hanging from the walls and ceiling of the one-room building she shared with her granddaughter Vessa. Beneath the herbs a great table, fireplace, and stack of dried firewood dominated much of the cluttered space. Between the retirement of the fortress' previous apothecary, Master Ridrick, and Warden Guerrin's efforts to reopen the workshop Jylan was now employed in, the Vigil had come to rely overmuch on the skills of its midwife. Her thoughts and feelings on this matter were clear to both Warden Guerrin and himself.

"I am fed by the keep's kitchens," he protested when she rolled a small pie of cheese and onions in a scrap of linen cloth, and paired it with a flask of brandy for the cold weather. There was no soup bone today for the hound, but Dirthamen had not finished chewing through the last one yet. "It is unnecessary for you to-"

"Hush, boy," she scolded him again, placing the items into his nearly empty basket. "People like us have to stick together, and seeing you walk about in this foul weather without the proper clothing is a travesty."

"It did not occur to me to check the weather beyond the keep before departing for this morning's deliveries." He made the admission to ease her anxiety over his well-being. "And I concede that it was unwise to proceed without returning for an appropriate cloak, as I do own one. It is more important that the morning deliveries be completed on time: before the morning bell."

"A piss on that bell. If you show up on my doorstep one more time without your cloak between now and next spring, I-" The wizen old elf curled her thin lips together tightly, looking him over in a severe manner. "Well I'll think of _something_ worth doing. I'd insist on you going back for your cloak _now_ but that basket of yours is too light for many more stops. Where else are you off to?"

"I have an order of polish for the chantry's fixtures, as well as this week's delivery of candlewax." A hard yellow block of it that he had cut into sections after it had finished curing. The sisters would mould the candles themselves using special wicks and the incense he had delivered earlier in the week.

"Come back this way when you're done," she told him. "Vessa should be back from her foraging this morning and if she comes by early enough I want you to take a few eggs to have on hand and boil up for yourself in that workshop." He tried to- "You're no Warden! Whatever they offer you from the kitchens is hardly the hottest or the freshest to be had. Off you get! Quit dripping water on my rushes, boy, and wear your cloak next time!"

She chased him and the hound from her home back out into the rain. The cold gave him pause, the rain soaking cold and fast through his sodden garments, beginning at his shoulders and reaching down through his sleeves. It was uncomfortable. His proximity to the midwife's fire had warmed the water already trapped in his clothes, causing a lapse in his awareness. He was very wet. The wind was very cold. The dawn sky remained dark for the storm clouds. The hound expressed anxiety over the situation by whining to him and nudging him with its square snout.

They proceeded to the chantry. The sanctuary was just off the Vigil's Market and up a steep, winding path to the top of a modest hill formed by the foundations of the fortress's high outer wall. The path was running with water and soaked his shoes and socks completely, leading to a numbing sensation across his toes when the persistent water became too much for his feet to keep warm against. Water had begun to trickle down his back from his wet shoulders, and he was aware of the water soaking into his hair from his dripping hood.

The chantry grounds were marked by a low stone wall with a wooden gate, and next to the gate was the chanters' board where tasks and requests from denizens of the Vigil were posted. Jylan made use of this board rather frequently to keep the workshop supplied with basic materials at a reduced cost compared to ordering supplies from Amaranthine or taxing himself with the additional duties. He paid for the requisitions via a modest float supplied by the Seneschal, and the money itself was kept locked up in a drawer only he and Warden Guerrin had access to.

After the warning he had received earlier in the week for trespassing across chantry grounds, Jylan placed himself by the chanter's board as he had been instructed. This was not an ideal situation: it was very dark, and very early, and he was standing in very poor weather. He would not be easily seen or noticed under these circumstances and now that he was not physically active in the rain, he was becoming increasingly cold.

His hair was very wet and his back was cold. He could not feel his fingertips and his hands ached when moved. Despite the two layers of his robes and then his trousers, the water had soaked down over his thighs and they were beginning to sting from the cold. If this continued, he would be unable to return to the workshop before first bell, the time at which he was expected to have himself in order and work through until the afternoon. It was reasonable to assume that at least one person would complain to the Seneschal if they approached the workshop at the appropriate time and he was not present.

His shoulders were very cold, and the wind persistently dragged itself around and cut into the shadow of his hood to chill his throat. It occurred to him that there was a possibility he may fall ill if his condition was allowed to worsen. At this point, even his immediate return to the keep would not guarantee his continued good health: he was very wet, and despite the relative warmth of the workshop he would have to work in wet clothing. The water dripping from his hems and hands would also pose a risk to his safety should he slip in wet shoes across the stone floor.

This was a very poor situation. If he took the additional time to bathe and change his clothes he would be at least an hour late in opening the workshop, and would thus be in violation of his contract to the Vigil. Alternatively, if he worked in wet clothes he would pose a danger to anyone entering the workshop who could slip in the water, such as Warden An'eth or _Hah'ren_ Velana. From yet another perspective: if he fell ill then he would be unable to work at all.

He decided that the third alternative was the least tolerable. He resolved not to become ill, and the first step in ensuring he maintained his health was to remove himself from the rain. In order to accomplish this task, he looked to the hound.

"Dirthamen," he called on the animal, a well-intended but poorly executed gift from Rowan Guerrin, Connor's sister. The grey hound immediately looked up in response to its name, its ears and jowls dripping from the downpour. "Go and alert the chantry sisters to my presence."

The dog did nothing. It whined at him and looked down the path away from the chantry. Leaving without making the delivery was an option that would only garner further scorn from the chantry sisters and Revered Mother Iris. Given his past experiences with the chantry in general, Jylan deemed this outcome even less pleasant than the notion of his falling ill. As he was beginning to shiver and the cold had crept diligently down his chest, he resolved to find a solution to his situation.

He considered his phrasing of the command and altered it. He brought to mind the manner in which many people who did not understand his circumstances as a Tranquil spoke to him, and adopted a similar tone.

"Dog: go bark at the door." The mabari stood with sudden excitement, dashed around in a tight circle, and then leapt over the fence and charged towards the chantry doors. Dirthamen reached the covered stone steps and stopped at the doors where he began barking in earnest, yapping and scraping, even rising on his back legs and slamming his paws against the doors. Even in the rain, Jylan could hear the ruckus clearly.

His ears, like the rest of him, were soaking wet and freezing cold. There was an uncomfortable chill grabbing around his arms and making his shivers more pronounced.

The chantry doors opened. This was good.

The voices were muddled by the rain and wind, but Dirthamen was brought into the chantry and then the doors slammed shut behind the dog. This was not good.

The chantry erupted with the howls and shrill snaps of an angry mabari. This was far worse than them merely becoming separated: the mabari had been commanded to bark with the possible understanding that his noise would bring the chantry sisters out to accept their delivery. Being taken away and barred from returning to Jylan's side sparked a reaction that was not surprising or unheard of, but was still unintended and no doubt inflammatory. This was not good.

The doors burst open again and Dirthamen threw himself out into the rain, bounding towards the fence and clearing the gate in another clean leap. The hound stopped, turned to face the chantry again and put his ears back, teeth showing, and growled across the yard.

Jylan looked the same way, expecting to see a sister or the Revered Mother coming to demand a reason for the mabari's behaviour. He would face a reprimand for the animal but would complete his delivery and be able to return to Mistress Valora and then into the keep to bathe and change his clothes. He was cold. His shivers were interfering with his ability to breathe. The candlewax was heavy and holding the basket with both hands was proving difficult.

The chantry door remained ajar for several seconds. He saw the edges of the sister's white and red robes and understood that if he could see her in a dark doorway then she could see him in his blue hood and white sleeves by the chanter's board, where he had been instructed to wait. A Tranquil and a mabari together at this hour of morning would only mean one thing: a delivery.

The chantry door swung shut. He did not understand why.

The morning bell began to toll from the Vigil's high tower. He was late. He had not completed the delivery. He could not cross the yard. He did not know what else to do.

He waited.

* * *

The weather over the Vigil was miserable today. The air was nothing but sheets of cold rain slapping the buildings and bubbling over the ground, cascading through the lanes both cobbled and soft to create a mess of the settlement. It was not good weather for walking, or visiting, or errand running. The wind was very cold even as the morning picked up and put many people in a foul mood. Children were shut up indoors, tradesmen were left to grumble in their workshops, and for Delilah the rain was just not what she'd wanted today.

Delilah had to remind herself of what her mother would say to hear her grown and married daughter drag her feet and whine all the way through the mess of a storm. A noblewoman did not groan. She did not bitch and complain about a bit of rain: she took her sword and her horse and she did her duty like Andraste had hers. Today, Delilah's horse was a box of fresh bread and cakes, and her duty was to deliver them to Sister Clarice at the fortress' chantry: a token of thanks and appreciation for the Sisters' forgiveness towards young Natalie this week.

Honestly, the girl was the spiritual twin of her namesake. Delilah would not let Nathaniel live down the moment when his niece had snuck into the chantry through _'that bad window in the back'_ and wound up on the beams holding up the building's roof. Grey Warden or no and brother or not, if her girl had fallen from that height Delilah would have smoked Nathaniel Howe from the keep for putting the idea of touching Andraste's forehead into Natalie's eleven-year-old mind. The girl was at home carding an abysmal quantity of wool for spinning, and the mother was nearly atop the chantry hill in the downpour.

She would be glad to have this errand over with so she could return home to a warm fire, some hot tea, and… Maker, what was he doing here?

"Master Ansera?" In that blue and white robe it could not be anyone else. His faithful hound was nowhere to be seen and he wasn't doing much of anything: standing there in the rain with both hands holding the basket she'd given him for his deliveries around the settlement. He wasn't posting anything to the chanter's board and would have been mad for trying it in this weather anyways. Delilah hurried to him when he did not acknowledge her, perhaps the rain was simply too loud?

"Compounder?" She tried again and he did not move. He was standing by the board with his head down, water running thick through his clothes and drizzling off of him like a statue. Hefting her box under one arm, she reached for his shoulder and felt the water soak her glove with the touch. She shook him. "Jylan!"

Delilah had never seen him startle before, but the fast breath and the shake that wracked him: she startled him. Something was wrong with his eyes when he looked at her because they wavered and moved over her like he was reading blurred lines on a page. His face was very pale and his lips were bloodless, water skating down his nose and the rain wetting his cheeks. He didn't greet her.

"I am- cold." She nearly dropped her goods.

"Maker's Divine Mercy, Jylan, I should think so!" Why was he out here? Why was he doing this to himself? "It's mid-morning, you shouldn't be here! Quickly now, out of this rain!" To the chantry, it was right there and he- and he resisted when she pulled him to the gate.

"I am not permitted to enter the chantry." He-

"What!?" She was _scandalized!_ "Jylan, at once! Tell me why you are out here."

"I am to deliver an order of wax- an order of candlewax." She had never heard him stumble with his words before. He was toneless, but short of breath. "Candlewax, and there is also- and I am late."

"And how were you going to deliver anything to the chantry without actually going inside?" And why wouldn't he be allowed inside? That was madness! She pulled him again and this time-

He stumbled and dropped his basket, spilling his sodden parcels which he then tried to retrieve despite her protests.

"Leave it and come inside," she told him, but he would not listen. He insisted on picking all of it up even when his numb fingers could not hold the wrapped bundles of wax properly. Food and a flask had fallen from the basket as well and Delilah had to just kneel and help him rather than watch him suffer in the mud and rain. "Jylan, quickly please. You must come inside."

"I am not permitted to enter the-"

"That is outlandish, _come_."

"No."

"Compounder Ansera this is not a joke!"

"I will not disobey the Revered Mother. I will not risk… I…" Risk? He was on one knee and did not rise. He looked down at the muddy ground for a heavy beat in the rain. Delilah saw him waver and then place one hand on the ground, his fingers quickly overwhelmed with grime and water. He couldn't stand? _He couldn't stand_.

"Jylan-" Delilah crouched and quickly hooked her arm under one of his, braced their shoulders together and tried to _lift_ him. He was elven, but not a trifling weight. He stumbled hard and she could not bring him to his feet: he staggered and hit the ground with both hands and knees this time. "Jylan!" He made one more attempt to rise and then pitched forward in a heap.

"Help! _Help!"_ She dropped her goods and scrambled for him, heart in her throat. She dragged his shoulders and head up before he could drown in the spilling water. " _Sisters! Wardens! Anyone, help! Someone_ _ **please!**_ _"_

She heard the violent racket of a mabari howling and snarling from all the way across the chantry yard. The doors flew open and out dashed Compounder Ansera's hound- but why was the loyal animal inside and not with him? Had- had the fool elf sent it in out of the rain? Why couldn't he have had the same care for himself first!

"Jylan wake up-" She kept her arm under his shoulder and holding him up, pulling back his hood because he was soaked through regardless and she couldn't see his face. He was dead weight in her arms. " _Help!_ Maker's Mercy, _help him!_ "

The sisters were coming, hurrying after the hound as it leaped the fence and growled at her before realizing she was no _threat_. It dropped its lips and let out a sharp whine, quickly coming forward and fussing at the side of its fallen master. Delilah looked up again when she heard the gate open and almost cried from relief as Sister Clarice and one of the Lay Sisters came to her aid. Ansera was going to be okay.

"Help him- please, help me take him inside," she pleaded. Delilah was just making noise now because Sister Clarice was already kneeling to help lift him of course.

"The strange fool has been standing here in the rain for hours." She felt the cold rain cut through her cloak and shawl.

"He said he had a delivery for you-" Delilah strung words together into a thought but it was an eerie thing to say. "He told me he couldn't enter the chantry for some reason- that the Revered Mother…"

"Then you think he would have come back in better weather! Marin, take his other arm from Mistress Stockard." It shocked her. Shook her deeply.

"You knew he was out here?" Abruptly the rain did not feel as cold to her. The wind was warm. The rain was hot. "You knew? And you left him?"

"Not _now_ , Mistress." Sister Clarice scolded her as if she were a bothersome child.

Delilah bit her tongue. She gathered the Compounder's basket and her own box of baked goods, now mud-splattered on the outside and perhaps a bit damp on the inside. She followed the two women as they dragged the elf between them, his hound alert and fidgeting aggressively.

Inside the chantry it was warm without being cozy and smelled of familiar incense and smoke. Andraste's stone effigy towered at the back of the chapel with her eternal flame wafting gently from her offered crucible. It was a modest building with barely enough space for the regular congregation, rows of hard wooden pews set up with four small alcoves built into the sides of the sanctuary. It was on to one of those pews that compounder Ansera was made to sit on.

Sit. In his condition. Water trickling from every part of him. They made him _sit_.

The mabari came quickly to his aid and spared Delilah an indignant scene. Jylan was bent over his own knees, elbows the only thing keeping him from simply dropping to the floor. The hound set its paws on his lap and placed its large head on his shoulder. If it had stood up completely the animal would have easily been taller than his hunched form, but it sought to give comfort and was rewarded when its master reached out enough to set his hands and forearms around the mabari. In his half-frozen state it was doubtless all he could muster. At a loss, Delilah took a seat next to him and placed a hand on his dripping shoulder to offer comfort while a proper bed was prepared for him.

Apparently they were to wait a while for _that_ courtesy as well.

"The wax should still be good." The two women fell upon the basket and unwrapped the long rectangular parcels of wax, clearly unimpressed with the soaked nature of the goods. They took a wooden jar as well, and then a linen square was scoffed at and tossed aside for containing a partially melted pie of pastry and cheese. Lay Sister Marin pried the cork from a small green flask and announced that it held cheap brandy.

Delilah saw red.

"That is his." She stated sharp and short. "Where is he to rest?"

"Right there," Lay Sister Marin answered, framed by Andraste's warm firelight and Delilah just wanted to slap her. "When he is warm enough and able to stand, he'll go back to-" _Warm enough_ in this stone room on a wooden bench in sopping wet clothes? They would kill him!

Delilah stood up, indignant, outraged, _hurt_. Marin was nothing but a Lay Sister but Clarice was quiet and offered absolutely no criticism of the other woman's disgusting comment. That she stood was enough to quiet the Lay Sister and focus Sister Clarice's attention back on her.

She had been born a Lady of House Howe. A Fereldan noblewoman did not scream and shriek and tantrum like a brat when things did not go her way and a Howe did not tip her hand too soon. She said nothing of the indignity of their behaviour: that they had known one of the Vigil's craftsmen was waiting for their attention but they had outright ignored him. That they had no intention of caring for him as was their due diligence as members of Andraste's holy order. That they did not dispute the suggestion that Compounder Ansera had been _barred_ from the chantry.

There was much room for Delilah to be wrong and to be mistaken, but there was more harm in saying too much too soon than in saying nothing at all, which was what she did presently.

"I will return shortly," her voice was not genuinely pleasant but there was an attempt made towards sounding polite. "Thank you, Sisters, for your patience."

Delilah left the chantry _with_ her bread box.

She went to smoke out her brother, stuff him in his armour, and set this shameful day _right_.


	6. The Commander's Nerves

**Empire of Angels, Two Men In Love, Pie Jesu**

 **This night-school gambit is kicking my ass but I ACTUALLY managed to get a chapter done this week.**

* * *

 _ **Echoes of Arlathan**_

The Commander's Nerves

For multiple reasons, Soren was slow to get out of bed that morning. Typically he was awake and about his business before dawn, but today he woke up with the frigid, adverse effects of the previous night's embrium. He was cold and he ached, shivering in cycles for the better part of an hour until the misery passed and he finally got to enjoy two things: his deep night's sleep, and his returned lover.

True to her words, Morrigan did not let him pretend that last night's incident, or lack thereof, had not happened. She teased and mocked him, slurred her words to mimic what he must have sounded like, let herself pretend to fall asleep in his arms, and similarly became an annoyance until he made her stop. He very diligently and dutifully made her _stop_. Grey Warden ' _vitality_ ' had nothing to do with it, Soren was just very stubborn about correcting his own mistakes.

"If you had only returned a few hours earlier, then we could have tried _this_ method before I resorted to the embrium." Because honestly, with the rain tapping on the windows and the sun too tired to try breaking through the storm and herald the day, it was very tempting to just stay in bed with her. To run his hand down along her hair, to feel the warm and satisfied weight of her body tangled with his, to assure himself that she was present and well.

He did have to get up however. Morrigan was free to complain and roll into his spot in the bed when he left it, but Soren needed to be off. Shirt and trousers and boots and a warm robe of thick black fur and a red velvet shell, belted over with black silks and iron links.

"You are wearing that one today?" She sighed from the bed.

"Yes?" He paused, "Is there a problem with it?"

"I had hoped to wear my emeralds again. They do not compliment the black of that robe."

"Flattered though I am, Morrigan, hearing you try to coordinate our outfits would horrify your younger self. What was it you told me? You would bake the bread while I painted the fence?" The problem was that he _was_ flattered, but not to the point of changing his outfit. What Soren did do was open one of the drawers in his own armoir and find the case he wanted. He pulled out a short metal wrist-guard of polished steel. It was set with emerald shards and functioned only as a ceremonial piece: a gift from someone important at some point. He closed it tight around his wrist and shook his sleeve out, holding his hand up with a look over his shoulder. Good enough?

Morrigan, on her stomach and chin resting on her woven fingers, was kicking her bare feet and smiling at him in a smug, conceited way. She was slow and lazy about sitting up while he finished getting ready. When he passed the bed again he did oblige her with a pause to lean down and kiss her forehead again, stroking his thumb across her cheek.

"We have matters to discuss today." She sighed the words like a burden and Soren tugged the quilt back up around her bare shoulders to keep her warm. Morrigan's eyes remained closed, her hair swept around over one shoulder and tangled across her modest chest. "Sadly, I did not return to the Vigil last night solely to enjoy your company and to criticize your wardrobe."

"It would do my pride no favours to think you came all the way from Tevinter just to share my bed, Morrigan."

"Tis not sharing when all involved is clearly mine." He tilted her chin up and let his lips settle full across hers, enjoying the smile that spread across her mouth before he pulled away. The smile did not last however, and she called to him again before he could leave. "It is important, Soren. Do not neglect this."

"Shall we discuss it now?" She scoffed at him and lifted her arms a little, looking down at herself where she was sitting on the bed. Sex-tousled and sleepy, her voice was husky and felt like a silk scarf brushing around the back of his neck. Don't do that.

"I am hardly fit to be seen." He did not kiss her again; he was not going to fall into that trap for the hundredth time and lose an entire day in her arms. Tomorrow was the day of rest, no one would miss him tomorrow. Except that tomorrow was not _today_ and she was sitting there with her hand stroking up her own bare thigh, head tilted and her golden eyes giving slow, half-lidded looks in his direction. _Stop that._

"Tend to yourself first then. Shall we have lunch together?" He offered, "How private is the matter?"

"Best kept from servants and fools, no doubt." She gave him a reproachful look for remaining so far away from the bed, and just like that her bedroom eyes and sleepiness vanished. She sat there alert on the bed, legs completely covered, and Soren knew he'd won but it felt more like a petty loss. "Zevran should obviously attend as it would not do to have it all explained repeatedly for him. Any of your capable Wardens would perhaps benefit as well." That was quiet the growing list. So no, in that case Morrigan was _not_ presently fit to discuss whatever it was openly.

"This afternoon, after I send Rowan away?"

"As you like, but make certain it is today." Very well.

"Until then," he nodded.

"Wait- no goodbye kiss?" She called after him like it was a scandal. Soren paused with a hand on the doorknob and gave her an open, innocent look.

"Of course no goodbyes, you live here." And he left with her laughter following him.

"-and if that doesn't work, you just set _everything_ on fire." Soren walked into the salon and found the hearthfire burning brightly. Zevran was sitting at the dining table across from a shy young girl whose dark brown hair was woven into a thick braid down her back. There was very poor magical tutelage in progress.

"Master Arainai," Soren clicked his tongue. Zevran's sunny grin was false and yet remained endearing. Damn him. "What are you teaching my apprentice?"

"Combat tactics," he chirped, and then looked back at the uncomfortable child, fingers numbering off points. "First, you set the enemy on fire. Then you set your allies on fire. And after _that_ you set the building-"

"That never happened," Soren cut him off with a huff. Zevran whirled in his seat and pointed at him directly.

"The Denerim dockyards you lying liar who tells lies."

"That was not my fault and you _know-_ "

"-that it was you who shouted ' _Shit, oil!_ ' before half the room exploded and I felt Andraste's holy gaze rest upon me." Melodramatic _ass_.

Soren stood there and he was quiet and he resolved not to say another word on this topic. Not in front of the girl.

Rowan Guerrin was the second child of Isolde and Eamon Guerrin of Redcliffe. Her father had been killed by Soren's magic at the Battle of Redcliffe last winter, her mother had been punished and exiled by King Alistair for crimes against Amaranthine and the Grey Wardens. Rowan, due to her brother's sense of compassion and obligation, had been brought to Vigil's Keep to study magic with Soren rather than send her all the way to Cumberland to join the College of Enchanters' there. Soren had been in contact _with_ the College regarding her, but she lived in Amaranthine now.

She was not what he would have called a happy child, not that she had much reason to be. Her magic had signalled the end of her family's fortunes and prominence, and the actions of her parents had destroyed not just their own lives, but reduced Rowan's childhood home to rubble. She had been a bright and precocious child when Soren had known here only as the young daughter of an Arl he rather disliked, but even he could see the changes in her over the last year.

She was withdrawn, especially around him. She kept her grey eyes downcast for most of their hours together, and the great trepidation she expressed regarding her magic was a hindrance to her practice and learning. She had dimmed considerably since her brother Connor had left Vigil's Keep for Weisshaupt Fortress in the Anderfels, but they had tried to prepare her for that certainty before his departure.

"In front of the girl, Zevran?" Soren finally asked, and his friend gave the widest, brightest, most frustrating and insincere grin. If Rowan had been charmed or even just entertained by his _tactics_ , then Soren couldn't tell from his place in the doorway.

" _Yes_." Asshole. "But I see you are finally awake and ready for your day. How does Morrigan fare?" Of course he would know she was home, he'd be a poor self-professed body guard if she took him by surprise like that.

"You have an ally in your campaign against my good rest," Soren allowed himself to say. "She was not impressed with the draught."

"I shouldn't think so. What about the matter of our beloved Cleric?"

"Do keep your mouth shut about that, will you?" Soren didn't know why he bothered with this topic anymore.

"Absolutely not!" Zevran chirped at him. "I will see you married if it is the last thing these old bones do."

"Are you my friend or my pestering mother?"

"Both. Certainly both." _Enough_.

Soren was permitted to eat breakfast at his own table, but when he rose to take Rowan with him to the library for a proper lesson the girl was unusually hesitant to leave. Her mabari, Laklah, was a heavy black hound that followed on the girl's heels to most places, and gave a disruptive bark to get his attention when Soren made to leave the apartments. He looked first to the dog, then to the young mage, and expected a reason.

She dropped her eyes and her voice barely fluttered above a whisper. The girl did not like him at all.

"Is… Is Lady Morrigan returned to Vigil's Keep, your grace?"

"Yes, Rowan, she has." But he answered this question the way he would have any other. "I'm not certain for how long, but at least for today and perhaps tomorrow as well. She has important matters to discuss with Master Arainai and myself."

"Oh, sounds _thrilling!_ " Zevran spoke up from his place by the fire where he had set himself up to read for the morning. Soren gave him a harsh look and received a rude hand-gesture for his trouble.

"Do you desire to visit with her while she is home?" Soren asked the girl, because he was no fool and remembered well the days shortly after the Battle of Redcliffe where Morrigan had whisked the child off for quiet conversations without him. Rowan kept her eyes down but nodded, murmuring a soft _'Yes, m'lord'_. Very well, he would see if Morrigan felt like humouring the girl.

Somehow, the topic put a funny thought in his head.

"Since your brother's departure, where have you been spending most of your time in the afternoons?" Doubtless she went and found the other children who ran about the Vigil: Nathaniel's niece Natalie, Oghren's daughter Sorran, and so on. There were plenty of children to be found both within the castle and the lower settlement.

"Sometimes with Master Ansera in the late afternoon, your grace, before he ends his day." Oh. Well that would have to stop at some point soon then. It would not be good for her to spend so much time around a Tranquil: failed mages were a poor influence on apprentices.

He had tact enough not to say as much to her right _now_ , but as he led Rowan away to the library he was certainly thinking about it. When Connor returned he could monitor his sister around the Tranquil, that was fine, but encouraging her fear of magic by showing her the fate once suffered by mages unable to master and control their magic would not help her in the long-term.

The place where they held their lessons together was an alcove of the Vigil's Library. As the historical seat of the Arling, the Vigil's Library was… honestly quite bare, holding little more than shelves and shelves of records and histories. Soren's immediate predecessor had kept a private library of questionable and frankly offensive tastes, and when Nathaniel had finished going through his father's library for the one or two tomes he actually wanted to keep, Soren had abandoned the rest. Some had gone to the chantry, others to the city for redistribution, and a few of the most foul had been outright burned.

Velanna's main duties when not acting as a Grey Warden were for the care of the library. She had cleaned it, reorganized the shelves, and with the space she'd opened up had been hard at work bringing in books actually worth reading. Works of poetry and playwrights, ballads, books of music, tomes of handicraft and lore, and so on. There were even books on the _practice_ of reading, to make the library itself more accessible. Soren was actually given reason to wonder if he should not have given her the library years ago, before her desertion. Would it have made a difference?

Best not to dwell on things like that.

The alcove for Rowan had a slate board resting atop a low shelf of books on magic. Most of them were basic theory and explanation: what was the veil? The Fade? What was a demon? How did the primal magics actually work? What was the roll of willpower and the mechanics of casting? Diagrams of anatomy and the charts of stars in the sky. Apprentice workbooks from Cumberland also took up space on the shelf. It was a great deal to go through and Rowan had many years of study ahead of her.

Like her brother, Rowan was intelligent and had a good memory. What she lacked was the discipline to study, but Soren had taught his son to read and write and was no stranger to fidgeting and spacey expressions. If Kieran had memorized the foundations of geometry, then Rowan would learn to remember and to draw the cardinal values.

"Your grace!" His fingertips were dusted with chalk and Rowan's face was tense with concentration when the voice interrupted them. The girl's spell collapsed completely, and she gave a frustrated cry and threw her quill down the table with a huff. Soren would have scolded her for it, but- "Your _grace!_ " He was distracted.

"Seneschal, this is most unlike you." Soren hoped the reproach was clear in his voice as Seneschal Garevel, the man who did much of the day to day care to keep Vigil's Keep functioning so smoothly, blustered into the middle of their lesson. Garevel's blond and tightly curled hair was speckled with water from the storm outside, but he wasn't wearing a cloak and the rest of him save his boots seemed dry.

What was most important was how the tall former-Captain of defense was clearly incensed about something. His fair complexion was blushing harshly from anger, his straight and pointed nose kept shaking while his green eyes quivered with a rage that surprised Soren. He was trying to calm himself to the point of being presentable, but was doing a poor job of it.

" _Do_ forgive me for interrupting Lady Rowan's lesson, your grace, but this matter _cannot_ wait another moment. I am beside myself and must speak with you. Privately. If possible. _Now._ "

Garevel was a man who possessed nerves of steel when holding a sword and shield, but suffered from a considerably weaker constitution when armed only with a ledger and pen. That said, he knew his place. He knew his duties, and he fulfilled his obligations decisively and effectively regardless of what was being asked of him. The very few times over the years that Garevel had ever come to Soren kicking up a wild fuss about something had been moments when he'd had every right to barge in and make demands of his time as Arl of Amaranthine. Seeing him like this, Soren was obliged to listen.

Soren looked to his apprentice, who was watching the exchange very closely. Her mabari had picked its black head up off the floor where it had curled up under the table its mistress was sitting at. With a nod, he gestured for Rowan to leave.

"To your chores then, and after lunch the day is yours." He dismissed her and Rowan was quick to shut her book, cap her ink, and escape the library. As soon as her footsteps had scurried off through the bare stone library, Soren's seneschal was already speaking.

"Your grace, I am as pious a man as they come," Garevel chose a strange opener and Soren resolved to just hear him out. "But you must lend me your support to hold Revered Mother Iris to task."

A hot flash passed through his body and Soren knew he let Garevel see his shock.

"I- _what?_ " He didn't intend to stammer and it was wrong of him. Garevel threw himself into an angry, affronted explanation.

"Compounder Ansera, as the entire fortress is aware, is the only person within Vigil's Keep qualified to operate the Apothecary in Warden Guerrin's extended absence. He is elven, he is of course tranquil, but above all else Master Ansera is under _my_ stewardship as Seneschal of Vigil's Keep- I will not allow the Chantry to abuse one of my staff be it a result of personal distaste or sheer disrespect!" Soren pulled a handkerchief from his robe's pocket to remove the chalk from his fingertips before he stained himself, gesturing for calm.

"Start at the beginning, Lawrence." What had the Tranquil gotten himself into _now?_

"It is a _list_ , your grace." The Seneschal came very close to directing his anger at the wrong person but reigned it in by laying one hand out and numbering off his points with the other. "I have been informed this morning that Compounder Ansera is forbidden from crossing onto the Chantry grounds- a _preposterous_ notion as he is a craftsman of the Vigil and a former ward of the Circle of Magi! He is wrongly barred and yet still expected to fulfill requisitions from the Revered Mother and to deliver them- to deliver to a place he is not permitted to go! Whilst standing in the rain this morning for Andraste Only Knows how long, Mother Iris' Sisters observed him but refused to meet him at the gate or to dismiss him! Your grace, it was _you_ who explained to me a year ago that all instructions for Ansera must proceed in a logical fashion because he takes them most literally."

"So he got stuck outside is what you're telling me." Soren could see that happening quite easily. It was unfortunate, but not surprising. "I trust he's alright for a bit of rain, Seneschal."

"He is certainly not, your grace." Oh? Then that meant Soren was obligated to listen a little longer. "He collapsed from the cold and if not for Mistress Stockard's intervention would likely have remained that way until afternoon prayer. They did not forget him: the Sisters stated to Mistress Stockard that they saw him and refused to meet him due to the rain- though they have already changed their story for the Revered Mother! It is shameful behaviour, your grace!"

But entirely expected. Soren held the words in, kept his silence because to speak at present would not be a good idea. He understood that Garevel expected him to be surprised by what he was hearing, but Soren wasn't. The Tranquil had been left out in the rain because the Sisters had not wanted to meet him in the storm. Had it been a sunny day outside they might still have done the same thing. The fault was not with the Sisters for being lazy but with the Tranquil for not having the capacity to decide for himself to abandon the errand for his own health. That they would lie about it to the Revered Mother was unfortunate but again- what did Garevel expect?

"Where is Compounder Ansera at present?" He asked to avoid the question working itself up the Seneschal's throat. Soren was not surprised and did not want to be asked why. "You've mentioned Warden Howe's sister twice."

"She originally had him moved into the Chantry to escape the rain, but claims the sisters refused to care for him there." Again, Soren was not surprised to hear that. They had probably just given him a place to sit and recoup before sending him on his way. "She brought Captain and Sergeant Howe from the Vigil to the Chantry to claim him along with Warden Athras. It was Captain Howe who alerted me to the matter and I've only just returned from the Chantry to find you."

"Then I trust that you have handled the matter. It seems important to you." Deflect. Deflect. Don't make this about him _at all_.

"Pardon my tone, your grace but _of course it's important to me!_ " Garevel came _very_ close to not being pardoned at all for his volume, but Soren held off from commenting on it. He let his thin lips and firm expression do the talking for him, but Garevel was too far gone in his own little world. "I will _not_ have my staff disrespected or put in harms way! I was prepared to hold Ansera to task for the complaints filtering in to me all morning over his workshop being closed and the Compounder himself nowhere to be found- as if he has anything else to do with his time except work! But this is intolerable, your grace. Pardon me again, Commander, but I am not running a Circle or a cloister: I am running a fortress, and that fortress needs it chemist as certainly as it needs its horsemaster or its blacksmith. If he should die from his illness then what will I tell his Guildmaster? No! If a bit of rain is too high a price for the Revered Mother to pay for her requisitions, then your grace I need your seal on the order to bar the Chantry from making _any_ requests of the apothecary."

Maker, he wanted to fight the Chantry over a _Tranquil_. The anxiety that crawled up Soren's spine was unnecessary and distracting. If the Revered Mother cried out to Amaranthine over this issue it would land squarely in front of the Grand Cleric of Amaranthine, and regardless of where the idea came from the fact that Soren would commit his signature to the act would make this a fight between him and Brona. She would misconstrue it as him acting up in response to her ruling on his proposed marriage to Morrigan. The pulpits across the Arling would _boil_ with anger against the Sorcerer Arl.

No. He would avoid it.

"How ill _is_ Ansera?" Soren asked, seeking a distraction. He drew his face into a look of concern, grappled with the anxiety and forced it into the role of a compassionate leader. "Sergeant Howe is a capable healer, but I agree with you about the Formari Guildsmen." No he didn't. Guildmaster Owain was a useful ally but didn't even register to him as an annoyance anymore, let alone a threat. "Take me to him, please. I'll not have anyone in my fortress so ill as to suddenly die from it."

"This way, your grace." He temporarily and very, very briefly, distracted the Seneschal from his request. "He has been returned to his quarters." Good.

It gave Soren time to _think_ , but not nearly enough.

He was not ultimately able to visit Ansera and witness his so-called _crippling condition_. Instead, Garevel's fiery need to act burned faster than Soren's mind could conjure up the arguments and reasons against barring the Revered Mother of Vigil's Keep from using the Apothecary workshop. He found himself in the Seneschal's office, listening to the Seneschal's arguments, witnessing his outrage, his offense, his bold and straight-forward right to maintain control over Vigil's Keep and its day-to-day needs. Their chemist was sick, their healer was dispatched to the far reaches of Northern Thedas, and their Chantry was abusing the only Tranquil within fifty miles of the sanctuary. The Seneschal demanded his Arl do something and Soren was too boxed-in to tell him no. It was humiliating.

Soren signed the document and through the rioting anxiety stamped the order himself on Garevel's desk. He had never committed to something so rashly, but he lost his words and was won over just enough by his Seneschal's convictions that he had let his hand hold the pen and then press his ring to the document. He hated himself for it. He hated the fact that he spoke no more than a handful of words and ultimately folded to the human's will, but he did. He signed it.

No, the Chantry could not be allowed to abuse members of the Vigil's staff and the fortress' denizens. No, the Sisters could not rightly bar anyone from the Chantry who had not already earned censure for lewdness or violence or after having disrespected the sanctuary in some way. Yes, it was Garevel's right to restrict access to the keep's offices and facilities. And no, Soren knew, he rationally _understood_ , that a tiff between the Seneschal and the actions of a Lay Sister and a lower clergywoman did not automatically warrant an intervention from the Grand Cleric. But, Maker's Breath, had it all needed to come down to a _Tranquil?_

From Garevel's office Soren made his unsteady way back up to his chambers. The morning had been wretched, he felt sick again from the embrium, and just wanted to fall into his chair next to his fire with his wife and brother there with him.

"You let a bigoted old priestess cancel _my_ wedding!?" _Fuck-_

"We never set a date-" Why did he even bother?

" _You_ allowed a Chantry stooge to cancel _my wedding!_ "

"You _traitor_ ," Soren hissed. Zevran didn't even look sorry! A curse on him and his judgement, how could he just _sit there_ over a cup of lukewarm tea and half-eaten pastries in the middle of the salon? And for his mistress: "Morrigan, enough."

"I have not yet _begun_!" She was dressed, her hair braided and pinned behind her head, her emeralds circling her throat and wrist: great green stones roped in thick gold. The twisted green and black of her dress was uniquely her style, but she ruined the effect of his tokens and her own beauty by _shrieking_ at him.

"Then let your little bird hear the rest of it as I have no patience left for the matter." He told her sharply, shaken by the yelling and screaming that hit him at the door "Grow up, both of you! The Grand Cleric is not a dragon or a beast, she is a well-respected and beloved fixture of the Arling and I will not antagonize her." No more than he already had today!

"How _dare_ you let her control you like this," Morrigan spat at him and his temper was barely able to rise and meet her. "And add insult to injury by chasing you to Orzammar of all places!"

Soren turned sharply on his heel and slammed the door shut behind him. He left his own apartments and his family to their yelling and harassment. Let Zevran complain about him to his heart's content, let Morrigan say whatever hateful things she could think of. He would not listen to them. A curse on both of them and their toxic little tea party!

The rain was still storming the fortress so the Wardens in residence were cooped up inside. There would be card and dice games in the mess hall, plenty of conversation and eating- but Soren didn't desire that much noise right now, and the problem was that he didn't want to be _alone_ either. Had it been sunny or at least less torrential outside, he would have gladly found one of his Wardens to spar against in the yard and retreat when he was bested or tired from the exercise- but the weather was not on his side. He wanted away from everyone without being _away_ from everyone.

"Your grace."

"Pardon the intrusion, Kennelmaster. I'm only here for Dinah." So he went to find the one companion that wouldn't try to talk to him and wouldn't make things awkward if he had no business or ability to fight her with.

"Of course, m'lord. I'll fetch her."

While the kennels were partially outside, the dog beds and crates themselves were in a warm, sheltered yard just off the servant's entrance by the Apothecary workshop. Dinah was the pup of the loyal hound Soren had rescued from Ostagar. Her coat was a bit more yellow than her sire's but her great black muzzle was just as flopping and broad as Tagar's had been. She was fully grown and strong like her sire, and as much as he missed the noble old hound he was quite fond of the pup.

She had been mellow since Kieran had left to squire in Denerim at midsummer, but she brightened up now and Soren took a knee to rub his mabari behind both ears and scratch between her large black eyes. He pleased her with more scratches down her broad neck as she panted in the cold and lolled her long pink tongue out with adoration. He felt better already, this was _much_ easier on his nerves.

"I heard about that mess with Ansera, your grace." Soren didn't expect the kennelmaster to have anything to say, but looked up when the man decided that yes, he wanted to speak. "It's a rotten shame is what it is. He's odd, yes, and far from my favourite person to deal with: but he knew he was in trouble or else he wouldn't have sent Dirth into the chantry like he did. Poor hound was sick with fright when the Howes brought Ansera back with them."

"You saw them come this way?" Soren asked.

"Aye, m'lord. They tried to leave Ansera's mabari with me but I think it would've broken the poor boy's heart to go back in the kennel. You know better than most how hard it is to get a mabari to leave its master when they're in trouble, but the hound wasn't nearly as frozen as the elf- pardon me, m'lord." Soren made a dismissive gesture with his hand to move the topic along. Congratulations, the kennelmaster had realized that the Arl and the Apothecary were both elves.

"So you're saying Ansera sent his hound away to protect it."

"I am, m'lord. If he knew the dog was in trouble and dealt with it then I can't figure out why he wouldn't have moved himself the same way."

"Compounder Ansera is tranquil, kennelmaster." Soren explained, still on one knee and rubbing his hands over Dinah's loving snout. "When a superior gives a Tranquil an order, they won't go against it unless it conflicts with something someone _else_ of even higher rank has already said." Now he stood, brushing his knees off but then letting one hand linger on Dinah's head. She was a large enough hound and Soren's own stature was lacking to the point where he could keep his touch on her without bending himself down crookedly.

"That's a frightening kind of power to hold over someone," the Kennelmaster observed with a quiet voice, gaze falling a little with the uncomfortable thought. "So he'll just go along with anything even when he knows better? Like standing out in this rain like he did all morning?"

"This morning was an extreme circumstance." Soren told him, soothing some of that anxiety on dutiful man's face. "Usually Tranquil are only beholden to a certain limit. If you tell one something absurd then they'll argue against it, and Ansera typically is much faster to question than most of his kind." Probably due to how Connor and some of the other Wardens treated him. Soren didn't mind Ansera's stubbornness _most of the time_ , he was simply never prepared for when the Tranquil questioned or challenged him personally. "I'm not certain how long he lived in the Circle before the war freed him from the Chantry."

"Uuh… I- thought the Chantry _protected_ the Formari?" Oh-

"They did, of course." -wait. "Is that not what I said?" The kennelmaster pursed his lips tightly.

"Um, no, your grace." The man stumbled. "That's not what you said. I- I should return to my duties, m'lord."

"Yes," Soren quickly agreed. "It has been a long and trying morning, kennelmaster, I will leave you to your work." And then he turned away with Dinah and he left.

 _Quickly_.

* * *

 **Drop a comment and I'll be back this weekend with the next part!**


	7. Resistance is Costly

**So Cold, Pieces.**

 **Just because I know someone will send me a "hey just so you know" about Jylan's condition! Does getting caught in the rain make you sick? No. Does getting hypothermia symptoms and then going down face-first in the mud of a medieval settlement full of horses, pigs, dogs, chickens and no septic systems of note make you sick? PROBABLY, YEAH.**

* * *

 ** _Echoes of Arlathan_**

Resistance is Costly

Eyes open and _pain._

" _Ah_ -"

Thick, sore pain down the bridge of his nose, clawing into his sinuses. Harsh, throbbing pain over his scalp and spinning down to the base of his ears. Splitting, cold pain that slid into his ears and pierced too deep to dig it out. Weight and congestion in his chest that caused his breaths to labour and he was in _pain_.

He did not know why he was in pain. He did not know why he was in bed. He did not know where he was. He did not know the time of day.

There was light. He could see. He was in his room but there was light: he was not supposed to be in bed. He moved both arms under the covers, they were sore and stiff and hurt, but he moved them and brought his hands to the edge of the blankets, lifted them and pushed down. He was in pain. He rolled onto his-

The normal breath he tried to take clogged and caught in his throat, twisted and knotted in his lungs. He coughed and his insides shook. The coughs kept coming and they hurt. He could not draw breath and his face became hot, his arm covering his mouth as his chest bubbled and the elbow propping him up began to ache and he-

" _Dahlen_ -" He was in his room. _Hah'ren_ Velanna was in his room. The light was from candles burning on his desk, the brazier was open with many red coals glowing inside of it. The Warden took his shoulder with both thin hands and leaned over him- he could not stop coughing. "Jylan, you must stay in bed."

The coughs subsided. He was in pain. He was cold. Velanna pushed him back from the edge of the bed but kept him on his side: it was easier to breathe. She replaced the blankets over him, tucking them around his shoulder and back. His eyes were closed. He was cold.

He remembered being cold. He remembered the rain. He remembered being made to sit in the scent of burning frankincense and cardamom. He remembered the Revered Mother. He remembered the cuts across his calves. He remembered being kept in the dark. He remembered the water trying to drown him. He remembered not being able to breathe. He remembered being dragged back to bed in the Apprentice Quarter. He remembered the brand.

He got out of bed.

"Jylan!" It was daylight and he would return to work. If his shoes were not under the bed then he would not wear shoes. He would not be beaten. He would not neglect his work. He would stand- let him stand. "Jylan I said _stay in bed_. You're too ill to walk around right now."

"I am not ill." His lungs hurt. His head hurt. His sinuses hurt. His ears hurt. All of him hurt. Without the blanket he was cold. He wore only the shirt and trousers meant for under his robes, no socks, no belt. He touched his hair and half his braid had come undone. His hair was wet. "I must return to the workshop."

"Don't be ridiculous! Lay down." She stepped in front of him, took him by both sore arms and forced him to sit again. He sat.

"I am tranquil, I must work." She did not let go of him and he could not stand. He was cold. His neck hurt. His head throbbed. A sharp sound under the bed hurt his ears but became the head and wide shoulders of Dirthamen. The grey mabari pulled itself out into the light and faced him, placing its chin on his knee with a keening whine in its throat.

" _Dahlen_ you have been through _enough_ today." He looked at Warden Velanna. He was not a child. She was wearing her blue quilted armour. She had tied her white hair up behind her head, revealing the blight scars curling her ears and marking her mouth under the _valasslin_ of her clan. She did not understand. "Lay down, _sleep_."

"I am not prepared to die." He told her. It was necessary that she understand. "I must work."

She was quiet. She stared at him. He removed her hands from his arms and stood again. The dog whined louder at him and his bare feet hurt against the cold stone floor.

"Why would you make that jump?" He was cold. His white and blue robes were not in his drawers, not hanging from the hooks on the wall. He touched his shirt and the fabric was damp under his arms and around his neck. His trousers were also damp. "Jylan, I need you to _stop_ and talk to me for a minute. Why would you die for missing a day of work?"

"Because I am tranquil, and Tranquil do not eat unless they accomplish a quota of work for the quartermaster." He found a shirt of undyed wool. He found a pair of undyed hempen trousers. He owned a second belt. "Tranquil who are too ill too work are not fed. The ill who are not fed do not recover. Those who do not recover die. I am not prepared to die, therefore: I will work."

"This isn't a human Circle, Jylan. You _live_ -" He was dizzy when he pulled his shirt off over his head. His body ached. His skin was very cold, too cold to warm the- "Stop. _Stop_ …"

Her hands touched his bare arm, the opposite shoulder. He was cold and the contact prevented him from putting the dry shirt on. The longer he stood the heavier his sore head became. He conceded now that it was not wise for him to stand however he did not consider the alternative a valid choice.

"Where did you get these scars?" Warden Velanna's voice was thick with emotion and it was poorly timed for him as he was required to return to the workshop to see out the remainder of the day. As he had done no work it was unlikely that he would catch up on the ledger. It was preferable to stand and recall the items inked into the workshop list than to remain poignantly aware of Warden Velanna's attention to his body.

Such focus had not been directed at him since his initial arrival at Vigil's Keep after the outbreak of the Mage-Templar War, before the establishment of the Amaranthine guildhall. That previous incident had been a catalogue of injuries and features incurred as a result of fleeing from Kinloch Hold for Archmage Surana's keep with then-Formari Quartermaster Owain. Any attention paid to his physical self by another between his Rite of Tranquility and the Circle's annulment carried decidedly unpleasant connotations.

"Jylan when did this happen to you?" _Hah'ren_ Velanna repeated from behind him. He was cold, his body hurt. It felt like the hard pulse of his heart was doing more to keep him standing than his legs themselves. " _Dahlen_ , answer me."

"During my time in the Ferelden Circle," he answered. "May I dress myself?" She removed her hands and he pulled down the wool. He covered the fine white lines cut across the backs of his shoulders and the undersides of his forearms. Most beatings did not leave scars, some did, and it was fortunate that he was turned away from her. He covered the pucker and dip of the scar cut into his abdomen with the one hand before smoothing the fabric over it. To distress _Hahren_ Velanna further would complicate his return to work.

He did not remove his trousers. He was cold. He was dizzy. He hurt all over.

"Please come back to bed," the Warden asked him, returning her hand to his arm but in a gentler fashion than before. "An'eth is on her way with something for you to eat."

"I have not worked today."

"Seneschal Garevel has already ruled on the matter and you are going to rest, _Dahlen_. Vigil's Keep does not need another sick apothecary." Oh. "Come sit down, please."

"I am to be returned to the Guildhall?" Vigil's Keep did not need another sick apothecary.

"You-? _No_." She pulled on him and he went with her this time. He sat on his bed. His head and shoulders were too heavy to hold up properly. Briefly, he rested his head down on his hands, elbows braced on his knees. She rubbed his back and sat next to him as she spoke. "You're going to spend today and tomorrow in bed getting better, and we'll see how you feel after the Chantry's prayer day."

He did not understand. He stopped arguing. Seneschal Garevel had already ruled on the matter.

 _Hah'ren_ Velanna stood and lifted his legs back onto the bed. He was propped against the headboard with his pillow behind his back. She arranged the blankets over him, then clicked her tongue and gave a quick gesture to permit Dirthamen to jump up onto the bed and lay its heavy body across his legs. The hound's belly was warm and it laid its head down on his lap.

His head hurt, his eyes hurt, his shoulders hurt. Moving caused him to cough again and the coughing made him short of breath, flushed his face, squeezed tears from his eyes. His hands ached, his chest rattled. He could not work.

Velanna opened his door and An'eth came inside. She bore a platter he did not understand the need for and atop it she carried a bowl and a plate and a cup and a pot and cutlery. The platter had legs and went across his lap as she smiled at him. The bowl was full of yellow broth and vegetables. The plate held a golden honey-cake drizzled with syrup. The pot held tea of elfroot and lemon. He did not understand: he had not worked today.

" _Lethallan_ , I need you to help him eat and make sure he stays in bed," he heard Velanna speak to An'eth. "I need to- there's something I have to go ask about. Do _not_ let him go back to work, just tell him no."

" _Hah'ren_ , is everything alright?" _Hah'ren_ , the elven word for elder, or wise one, a term of respect. _Lethallan_ was a term of affection used for a woman or girl. _Lethallin_ was the same endearment for men and boys. _Dahlen_ was reserved for children. He had never understood _Hah'ren_ Velanna's intentions in changing his address from _Lethallin_ to _Dahlen,_ he was not a child.

"Yes, just look after him. _Dahlen,_ please eat." He looked from the food to _Hah'ren_ Velanna when she called on him, and gave no indication beyond that of having heard her. She left and closed the door behind her, keeping the heat from the glowing brazier locked inside with him, An'eth, and the hound.

"Do you need any help feeding yourself?" An'eth asked him. She, like Velanna, was dressed in her armour. She was not wearing all of it: the silverite faulds around her waist, her shoulder guards, her breastplate and greaves were all missing. But she wore the quilted and silverite-heavy tunic of a Grey Warden along with the heavy belt to hold her sword and missing shield. Under the tunic was the hem of her chainmail, and there was the polished edge of her gorget visible around her throat. She smiled at him and sat down on the side of his bed, folding one leg over the other and shaking her orange braids out in the firelight.

His head pounded. His eyes strained. His sinuses were knotted and sore. He was cold and he was dizzy. He reached for her hand to anchor himself against the sensation of spinning.

"You've had a very rough day, _lethallin_."

"I do not remember-" he felt his chest tighten, turned his face away, and tucked his mouth to his elbow when he started to cough again. And cough. And it hurt and he was in pain and he could not breathe. Something salted and slimy came up into his mouth, it coated his tongue, it was unpleasant and unwanted. He did not turn back towards her until he heard her repeating _'Here, take this'_ to him. It was a simple linen handkerchief embroidered with the Warden Griffon in the corner.

He spat into it and did not give the soiled item back. She poured the elfroot and lemon tea into the cup and offered it to him with both hands. He accepted it. He drank it. It was warm but made him shiver all over. Dirthamen whimpered from across his knees, An'eth took the cup from him and encouraged him to eat the soup.

"I do not understand." The Seneschal had already ruled on the matter. Was this food for him or was it for An'eth and she had merely brought it to him? He had never taken food from the Warden Mess Hall for himself, he did not know the punishment for it. It would end his chances of recovery should the punishment prove too severe for him in his compromised state.

"Please eat while it's hot, _Lethallin_. I don't want Mistress Felsi or _Hah'ren_ Velanna to scold me if you eat it cold." It would be wrong to see An'eth punished. The soup was heavy with garlic and onion, it had shredded parsley floating on top, and shaved mats of potato and turnip and parsnip floating inside the clear liquid. He held the bowl with both hands and drank the broth. He nearly dropped it on himself for the sudden shaking and shivering but he was cold. He was very cold.

"I can't tell if it's the rain or if you already have a fever." He was ill but he did not remember how he had come to be this way. His grasp of events was compromised. Her hands irritated the brand above his eyes, cupped his cheeks, they settled around his throat.

He remembered the Circle basement. He remembered the incense of the chantry. He remembered walking through the rain. He remembered being beaten. He remembered the guildhall workshop in Amaranthine. He remembered Connor's workshop in Vigils' Keep. He remembered the Templar quarters in Kinloch Hold.

He had not worked today, this was not his food to eat, and he would be returned to Amaranthine for angering Revered Mother Senna. Iris. Revered Mother Iris.

"-lan? _Jylan?_ " He had stopped listening to An'eth. It was not unreasonable that the Templar, kind as she was, would punish-

An'eth was not a Templar. There had been no el'vhen Templars. An'eth was a Grey Warden and Jylan was confused by his fever. He closed his eyes. His eyes were already closed. He opened them? He closed them again.

He was not fit to work. She took the bowl from him. She took the tray from the bed. She pulled on his legs until he slid from the headboard and lay flat on the bed. He was dizzy. He was in pain. He was very ill. He had no right to resist. He was tranquil. Templar favour came with discouraging expectations. A Tranquil's obedience was required; a Templar's protection was never guaranteed. He remembered Knight-Lieutenant Hannah.

"Please do not _-_ " He had no right to resist. He lay still. His lungs hurt.

"Why are you rigid like this? _Lethallin_ , I want to help you-"

"I am already in _pain-"_ He would not resist. He would lay still. His head and nose and throat and ears all hurt. His voice fell, he could not breathe."- _please do not."_

"Where is the pain? Tell me and I can go find the _Hah'ren_." The dog barked and the noise made him recoil in pain. He hurt all over. She held his arm down. Hannah placed her hand on his face.

"Stop touching me." He'd resisted. He would be punished. He had no right to resist. The warm weight over his legs lifted and vanished, bed shook hard and the door opened. His pain was no justification: he was tranquil. He still feel her hands but he spoke through the voices that fluttered over him. The words felt old in his mouth:

"I apologize for my disrespect. I am tranquil and know my place. I have no business in arguing, it is your right to proceed."

He was very ill. His body hurt. He was confused.

The Warden Commander of Ferelden's voice filled the room like a storm surge.

"Warden Corporal _Athras_." The sound drew the warmth from the coals, snuffed the candles out, and blew frost over the bedding. " _Get out_ , and if I see you lay a hand on that Tranquil again I will _cut it off!"_

There were more words but the storm pounding the Vigil's walls blew them down and swept Hannah away. Dog nails scratched the floor, the door rattled shut and the candles and coals burned again. He was cold. He was heavy. He could not move.

Warmth and weight rumbled onto the bed and trapped his legs again. He would not resist- but a harsh male voice spoke up. The weight moved off of him. Settled next to him. Stopped touching him. A thin, cold hand scooped up under his head and lifted, and he smelled hot lemon and elfroot when a ceramic edge was pushed to his lips. He drank the tea until it was gone. His head was placed back down.

He heard the subtle snap and hiss of magic, the warble and resistance of something he had once known but could no longer experience. He was blind to the spell as it formed, and did not resist when warmth rolled down in a line from his throat to his groin, spread itself thick and wide across his body, and then soaked down through his skin, through his flesh, into his bones. The spell radiated down his legs, swallowed his feet, embraced his hands and then crowned his head until even the very tips of his nose and ears were enveloped in heat.

His forehead blazed with pain. It seared and stung, it felt like the skin boiled and his skull was trying to crack open.

Archmage Surana wove a sheet of spell-power that smothered his face. It soaked through his eyes, stretched over his cheeks, invaded his nostrils and filled his mouth. His fingers curled, but he did not resist.

The spell sent him to sleep and the pain was gone.

* * *

He'd run away from her. Morrigan had known him for fifteen years, the first of which had been the middle of a terrible Blight threatening to destroy their world, and today was the first time she had ever seen Soren run away.

Oh, he had ordered a retreat before. Cabals of blood mages and disastrous traps in the Deep Roads were not something you could overcome with steel nerves alone. She had seen him freeze from fright and overcome it, watched him grit his teeth in anger and grunt out the order to fall back, but she had never watched him run away. Least of all, _from her._

And they had argued before. They had thundered and yelled and made threats at each other. Morrigan always knew when he was truly furious about something because that would be the point at which he would put distance between them. After exposing themselves to the chaos of his precious Circle Tower during its bloody massacre, he had raged against her. Dismissed and insulted her. Cast her from his side and sent her back to wait in the locked chamber with the very Templars he had warned her not to remain alone with. Their last night in Redcliffe before the march to Denerim, when she had explained the ritual to him: he had lost his temper completely and called her a torrent of violent things he had not apologized for until years later.

Soren's anger was a fiercely controlled act of nature. She had always known him to have a terrible fire consuming him on the inside, but he masked it with layers upon layers of self-control and deception first. It was not the same as saying he had a _temper_ , that he was colicky or violent or prone to foolish outbursts. No, her love did not have a _temper_ : he had _anger_.

He let its venom drip from his teeth at times, and he flexed his claws now and then as any good leader should. He knew to strike with precision and suffocating force when prompted, and tolerated no challenges against his authority. When he was afraid, because he was only mortal and all men feel fear in the face of great peril, he would fortify himself with his rage and carry forward. It was how he had conquered Redcliffe and returned Morrigan's son to her arms. Frightened though he had been during the campaign against House Guerrin, Soren had never let that terror cripple him, not to the point of running away.

Morrigan challenged him on this so-called matter of the Grand Cleric as a means of proving Zevran wrong: he was being ridiculous in his assertion that Soren was unwell. Instead it was Morrigan who was left in confusion when Soren barely strung a dozen words together on the matter before turning tail and fleeing from her.

She was uncertain now, a feeling she did not like. Zevran claimed it was not a matter of blackmail: Soren had been himself right up until he had stepped foot inside the cathedral in Amaranthine, and then it had all changed. The two of them pondered and discussed the matter throughout the afternoon because this was not like him: Kieran's father did not run from _anything_ , least of all a quarrel with Morrigan herself, and certainly never from an old bigot of a priest.

"Should we just let him _go?_ " Zevran finally suggested what they must have both been thinking. "Go to Orzammar? It's not like there's ever a _good_ time to lead an expedition into the Deep Roads, but should I keep arguing against it?"

"Matters in Tevinter are dire at present," she allowed herself to say, warry of saying too much and compromising efforts in the north. "The Hero of Ferelden cannot vanish again. Ferelden and the Grey Wardens will need a trusted and powerful mage like him to remain _visible_ as news spreads south. If he must travel off somewhere for a season then let him, but the Deep Roads are too much of a risk: I don't want any whispers of him hearing his Calling again." She had not expected saying the words out loud to trouble her as they did. _His Calling_. It made her skin crawl.

"The Dalish clan reunion is this year," Zevran commented, and Morrigan felt herself beginning to scoff. He raised a hand to her. "When nugs fly, I know. But he has all of these books you brought him from the Fade, and those tablets from Tevinter, so why not have him go to the grand meeting of elves and see what the Dalish might have on the subject of blights and taints and cures? It's safer than the Deep Roads."

"When nugs fly, Zevran." She purred the comment and gave him a very tolerant smile from her reclined pose atop her favoured couch in the salon. Zevran was standing with a hand on the back of Soren's armchair opposite the fire from her. He had considered going after their mutual acquaintance after his flight, but then remained with her instead. Morrigan sighed and looked into the fire again.

The great meeting of the clans could easily be the respite Soren was so eager for. He wanted something to distract him from these matters with the Chantry, and with a Clansman of the Lady Inquisitor nestled within the Grey Warden's ranks they would doubtless be able to learn the location of the _Arlath'vhen_ , but to what end? Soren would no sooner agree to visit the Dalish than he would partner to dance with the Grand Cleric. If Warden Lavellan was even going to the great reunion of his people, then he was very likely to travel alone.

They were briefly beset upon by one of Morrigan's least favourite Grey Wardens. While she could certainly empathize with a quest for knowledge that had been ultimately fruitless for the other woman, Morrigan chose to disregard the merits of Warden Velanna's decision to vanish into the Deep Roads for a decade and cultivated a dismissive attitude towards her instead. That she had married one of Soren's most trusted Senior Wardens had only strained Morrigan's opinion further. Zevran liked Velanna just fine.

She asked for her Commander and was told they did not know where he was. She seemed quite put-upon by this answer.

"He cannot be the _only_ Circle Mage in this castle…" Zevran took to Warden Velanna's comment with great enthusiasm.

"It's almost like he restricted having mages in the order on purpose!" Perhaps Morrigan had mis-judged her friend's opinion of the elven Warden in front of them. "But to the matter: sadly yes. Warden Guerrin is perhaps somewhere between Tevinter and the Anderfels by now, and Warden Sephri was sent to my dear Antiva City to meet with the Antivan Grey Wardens some weeks ago."

Velanna thinned her Blight-scarred lips in a bitter line, then nodded to show her understanding.

"I'll just have to ask Ansera when he's feeling better," she admitted, but in doing so she piqued Morrigan's curiosity.

"Ask him what, pray-tell?" Something pertaining to the Circles no doubt, if she thought her Commander would answer the matter. Velanna's eyes were drawn away to look at some nondescript corner of the room before she mustered her will and spoke with her attention properly focused on Morrigan.

"Compounder Ansera has scars on his back and arms he says he was given during his time in the Circle." An uncomfortable but far from unheard of reality, especially for a Tranquil. "As he's fallen very ill thanks to the Chantry's abuse of him this morning, I wanted to ask the Commander instead if the harm would have been done to him before or _after_ he was made tranquil." Hm…

"My first reaction would be to say after," Morrigan commented, turning the idle concept over. "But the mages of Kinloch Hold were a cowed and subservient group who let themselves be led along like chattle by the Templar's hands. I doubt any of them save your Commander would have dared put up a fight if faced with a lash or a belt." Soren would never have bowed to such indignity. And if he had: he would never have forgiven the Templars for it.

"There's little point in beating a Tranquil," Zevran threw this fact out for their attention. "Unless that is one's particularly awful flavour. Was there not _one_ nice Circle in the entire Chantry?"

"No," both women told him, and the assassin grinned and laughed to himself a little.

"Excuse me, then." The Warden sought to leave them but did not manage to get very far. Morrigan felt the thick, smoky ash of magic in her chest twist and press to her ribs with the strong and immediate presence of mystic power. With a blunt crack of force, the towering wooden doors to the apartments flashed open and slammed against the walls, and Morrigan's concerns for the day increased.

Soren was _enraged_. He was letting it onto his face: his teeth were bare and locked together, his skin flushed, and the taint was eating through his eyes. He spared not a look for the three of them by the fire and raised one hand towards his office, nearly ripping the great door off its hinges. With his fingers still curled in a brutal claw, he looked back at the person who followed in his wake and barked at her:

"Inside!"

"Commander _nothing happened_." That the young elven woman who followed chose to argue with him spoke both to her own courage and her great stupidity. She was one of Soren's Wardens, her bright red hair and _valasslin_ were familiar to Morrigan's eyes but the Dalish woman's name escaped her. She walked rigidly in her blue Warden tunic, unarmed save a long Dalish dagger at her belt, and stood there defiantly in the doorway. "Sir, I would _never_ -"

" _Get_ inside before I give you an audience!" Soren threatened with his temper showing, the burning red iron bleeding under the slag. His Warden must have been made of stronger stuff because she set herself firmly in the doorway and looked fast across the three people already present in the chamber before returning to her Commander. She shook her head.

"I won't be shamed for something I didn't do," she told him, speaking to the room now. "Let them listen: I don't fear them."

"Well you should!" Soren thundered at her and Morrigan held back a cutting hiss to have him reign in his temper with the door still wide open. The entire keep need not hear his rampage! "Preying on a man too ill to move and already conditioned not to resist! I should have your eyes struck out, Athras!"

"Warden Commander you are _jumping to conclusions!_ " Morrigan understood the fervor of Warden Athras' plea this time, if plea was even the word for that strong, bitter challenge she threw at him. "I would never hurt Jylan, _never_ , sir. I wasn't doing _anything_ to him- I was trying to sooth him! Brush his hair back and help him sleep!" Soren was going this far for the Tranquil?

"I _heard him_ -" The hatred in his voice said yes: he was doing this for the Tranquil.

"I don't know why he said those things but I won't be held at fault for something that didn't even happen!" Athras shouted back, arguing for her life. Her Commander was ready to dishonour and cast down one of his own Grey Wardens for the sake of the Tranquil working in Vigil's Keep. Morrigan could have expected such concern from Skyhold, but within the Vigil it was strange. "You came right to his side- you know I'm telling the truth! He was covered in blankets and my hand was only at his face!" The Warden marshalled her defenses and ended with: "Commander, my name isn't _Hannah!_ "

Soren didn't scream back at her but his anger remained a violent, vicious thing coiling around him like smoke. His scarred fingers remained curled and the knuckles rubbed past each other in the silent debate between magic and gesture. He shook his head and every part of him remained rigid, the step he took towards her was a complete threat.

"The only reason you think I'm overreacting, Athras, is because you have _no idea_ what a Tranquil is." He told her with that toxic anger spilling past his clenched teeth. "You have _no concept_ of what Ansera's existence even means! What he's used for! You do not soothe a Tranquil anymore than you whisper goodnight to a broom- but you do not, _ever_ , lay a hand on one of them!" Soren's words shocked Athras. His was a harsh opinion of the Tranquil- but any challenges to it were much better left to private discussions. Morrigan was not going to undercut him while he was in the middle of reprimanding his own underling, and he was not done yet.

"Commander he was _suffering_ under-"

"There is not enough of him left _to_ suffer!" He beat her words down fiercely. "Your empathy is mislaid, Warden, stop pretending to see things that don't exist! I am well aware of your soft-spot for Ansera and I am warning you now to harden it. Leave him alone! You'll no sooner find affection from a painting than from a Tranquil and I will not risk further harm to him!" He meant these words. Whatever his reasons, he meant the point as he struck out with his judgement: "If I have any reason at all to suspect, once Ansera is recovered from his fever, that your presence put him back in the mindset of the Circle Tower then Warden Athras you will leave me with only two choices: either I send him _back_ to his guild to protect him from you, or send you _back_ to your Clan to keep you from disgracing the Grey Wardens."

"You can't just separate us like that- it's not fair!" The girl thought fairness had anything to do with this.

"I will remind both of you-" Zevran quickly cut in, alarm clear in his voice. "-that most of Ansera's pay goes straight to his family in Gwaren. Without his posting here at the Vigil his brothers and sisters will lose his income."

"Commander, Keeper Lanaya _sent_ An'eth to join the Wardens as a blessed envoy," Velanna was just as quick to step in, nearly stumbling over Zevran's words with her own. "Think what you will of the Dalish and our ways, sir, but the insult would be clear to the entire clan."

"Then it would seem the only alternative is for Warden Athras to step back and keep her distance from Ansera at all costs." He was far too smug when he made the announcement. Normally she would revel in little victories of his like this one but today it was cloyingly sweet. He wanted it too much. He was speaking not from a place of superior authority but from a simple imbalance of power: because he could destroy either of them with a word, he would do so.

Morrigan could take delight in his manipulations, but his cruelty was not a flavour she enjoyed.

"I- but…" His restrictions placed a heavy burden upon the warrior in front of them. Her entire face was fallen from the blow, shoulders down, voice meek. "I don't even know what that would look like."

"It means that unless you have business with the fortress apothecary, Warden Athras, you will leave him _alone_."

Soren got rid of them both after that: Athras and Velanna. The mage didn't even stop to ask the commander her curious questions about Circle abuse, she clearly knew the kind of response the topic would set off from him. The apartment doors swung shut with an echoing clatter and Zevran was the first of them to speak again without the two Dalish.

"I won't pretend to see the world in a brighter light than most, Soren, but be explicit: what did Ansera _say_ about this Hannah woman?" Zevran was still facing the doors but turned his head to watch his friend. Morrigan wasn't yet certain if she wanted to acknowledge her partner's cruelty as a sign of his distress or a simply uncalled for abuse of power. As for Soren himself, his anger had retreated back inside of him, like heat through an ember slowly blackening on the outside, but just as broiling hot under the ash. His sigh and the roll of his shoulders were just an act to help him pretend calm again.

"In literal terms, he apologized for resisting her and reminded her that she had every right to do as she pleased." Hearing him explain the matter was revolting and Morrigan quite hated Zevran for having to ask. "In explicit terms, he told her to rape him." _Ugh,_ she didn't _bother_ to hide the shiver of disgust.

Zevran, on the other hand, was holding himself with great care and was staring in such a way that had kept Soren from moving either.

"I thought you said life in Kinloch Hold was different from Kirkwall." Zevran used the words like an accusation and Morrigan _refused_ to play peacemaker between them tonight.

"For the mages? Completely." Soren unstuck himself and looked to his friend with an open challenge. "I never said a word about the Tranquil."

"How do you just _ignore_ something like that when passing judgement?"

"Because the Circles are gone, most of the Tranquil are dead, and the vast majority of the ones left in Ferelden are in Amaranthine." _Enough_.

"Stop." She meant it for both of them, moving until she was next to her love and could give one man and then the other in turn a warning look. Honestly, there were plenty of other things for Zevran to become angry over and this need not be one of them. "Enough." They clearly needed a break from one another.

She hooked a finger under Soren's chin and pulled him up. He did not like it and resisted her kiss, but still permitted it. He was surly and ill-tempered but no longer out of control. He even had an announcement for her once it was done.

"Whatever important business you wanted to discuss with me this morning, Morrigan, say it now because tomorrow I am going to Amaranthine."

"Flying free of your nagging woman, are you?" She pricked him with the words and saw the way he thinned his lips, the spark in his blue eyes that he put true effort into smothering. _Very_ ill-tempered.

"I am the Arl and I have business there." Proud, arrogant man, her Warden.

"Very well." She kissed him again, with less force this time, and then pushed, bullied, and physically moved both of them on to matters of _more important_ business.

* * *

 **THE CIRCLES WERE THE BEST IDEA EVER RIGHT GUYS?**


	8. Patronage

**So Cold, Breathe, Battle for Haven, Battlefield, Burning Heart, No Matter What They Say**

* * *

 ** _Echoes of Arlathan_**

Patronage

Soren slept fitfully beside Morrigan that night. He'd expected a better night's rest with her home and his temper exercised on Athras but he was mistaken. Soren woke up several times without excuse, felt Morrigan's warm breaths slowly trailing down his back and shoulder, and just laid there sleepless in the dark. When his mind wandered and he felt like he might be able to hear the echoes of the Fade calling him, it wasn't… quite right.

Curse that tranquil for putting honey in the Vigil's soap this month. Maybe that was what kept waking him up: the oily, cloying sweetness that saturated his fingers and dripped down his face when he washed up before bed. It was hanging there around his curled hands, down his own cheeks, and Morrigan had washed with the same syrupy cake he had: turning to her was no respite.

" _Did you complete your task?"_ He hated the smell of honey. The taste and colour and everything else were fine with him, and he wasn't one to turn down a dollop of it in cream or tea or drizzled over pastry, but the smell? He hated the smell of honey. " _I instructed you to go to the apprentice quarters and take something from whomever you found there. What did you bring back?"_

Soren hated the smell of Irving's office. It was the smell of a failed challenge. That itching, greasy reek that had stung his nose from the inside every time he'd gone inside. The First Enchanter had delighted in the lumps of wax that had sunk one by one into a pool of their own oils from a diffuser in his office. Irving's mother had tended hives and his childhood home had been filled with flowers and liquid gold. Irving had known Knight Commander Greagoire hated bees.

Soren covered his eyes with one hand in bed, a gesture he couldn't have made standing in that office.

" _What did you bring back?"_ Nothing, the first time. Soren had taken a scent box from another apprentice: a little keepsake from the girl's father and filled with some old cinnamon that had lost its stink. He only remembered the spice because that had been her argument against him: _'It's too old, it's lost it's smell-!_ ' He'd taken it anyways.

Jowan had seen him bully it from the new apprentice's wailing grasp. Seen, not watched. Watching implied he had been too scandalized by Soren's sudden change in behaviour to do anything about it. He'd seen him, and when yelling had just made Soren walk faster to try and get back to Irving's office with the prize, his human friend had tackled him to a wall and forced it from his hands with plenty of kicks and punches to flavour his opinion. All Soren had brought back to his new mentor was a bruised side and cut lip. He'd failed his very first assignment.

" _Cruelty,_ " the First Enchanter's green robe cut with real gold, not the yellow alloy that mimicked and mocked such finery. " _Is a powerful and effective method of control. However, as you just experienced: being unaware of one's witnesses and surroundings may lead very abruptly to our own humiliation and undoing."_ Wise, if cryptic words at the time. All Soren had known while standing there was that he'd owed the other apprentice an apology, Jowan an explanation, and himself a sharp kick. " _Tell me, child. As one so often on the receiving end of others' cruelty, how did it make you feel to be in control for that brief moment before it all went wrong?"_

He'd thought his way through the answer before giving it. Thoughtful but short silences were one of the reasons he'd been brought before that desk in the first place. He had been told that that office was a safe space, but Soren had already learned from his first five years in the Circle and had understood that _nowhere_ in the tower was _'safe'_.

What was it he'd said? Oh right:

" _I don't know, sir, if you want a real answer or the right one."_

Irving had liked that comment. He'd liked that twelve year old brat who had been regularly mistaken for a junior apprentice for his unbroken voice and pitiful stature but had still known how to please. That quiet, soft-spoken, lying boy who had known the only right answer was the one that didn't get you a beating after giving it.

" _Let us hear both! What is your real answer, my boy?"_

" _I hated it."_ Such a stupid and dangerous thing to admit to someone who would go on to teach him to want _more_. " _I felt like I was betraying her. I'm not a Chantry Initiate or a Templar Squire, First Enchanter, I'm an Apprentice and I should've been helping her get used to the Circle, not making her first week even worse."_ Oh, the way his stomach had dropped when he'd known Irving didn't like the sound of his words. Another reason he'd been chosen: his skill with sigils had paled in comparison to his ability to read faces. Nothing about Irving's face had changed except his eyes, but that had been enough. He had displeased him and Soren had been stupid: he'd expected a switch or a belt for a bad answer, but that had never happened. Seven years Soren had spent as the First Enchanter's Apprentice, and not once did he ever remember Irving laying a hand on him as punishment.

" _What is the correct answer, Apprentice?"_ But that was not to say Irving had never _punished_ him.

" _It felt like a wasted opportunity._ " Soren remembered feeling blinded by Irving's disapproval over the first answer. He remembered searching feeble and lost trying to find the right words to correct and gain back the ground he'd lost. He'd been so scared and scared to _show it_ that he'd tried to make his voice sound hateful to mask it, but failed. " _A bad call. There's nothing I want in the Apprentice quarters, sir. I should have liked to wait until meal times and taken something good to eat instead. I'd rather have an apple than a box of old snuff."_

" _Then wait you shall."_ He knew _now_ what the right answer was. Over twenty years of distance could make most school problems seem very simple. The right answer was that: if you were going to be cruel to someone below you then you had to be certain your allies were already too warry to publicly challenge you, or they just couldn't know what you were doing at all.

He doubted, laying here in this bed two hundred miles and three wars away from Kinloch Hold, that Irving would have cared if he'd given a _perfect_ answer anyways. He'd learned the lesson in the end but not executed the command the first time. The punishment had been very like the First Enchanter:

" _Then wait you shall_ ," he'd said with the tangled wires of his grey-black beard spreading around his smile. " _For a young mage must eat, and that can be difficult when singled out. We shall see how you fare between now and tomorrow afternoon with no meals from the Circle kitchens. You will attend dinner service tonight without a plate and then proceed to prayer. Tomorrow you will have to make due on your own for breakfast and lunch as well."_

Soren threw off the covers, he was tired of not sleeping. He pried Morrigan's hands off his skin. He hated the stink of the soap on his hands, how its oils reeked from the wash-water still resting in the basin. He found his trousers and boots and a housecoat of warm fur to throw around his shoulders.

"…Soren?"

" _If your focus is affected by hunger, you'd best learn to hide it from me. Good day, Apprentice."_

"I'm going to go look at the eluvian. Go back to sleep." He left the room.

Ever since Vigil's Keep had been rebuilt from the Thaw and Soren had finally returned to Amaranthine with his relationship to his family in tact, there had been an eluvian in the fortress. The ancient el'vhen mirror was kept in the magical laboratory both Soren and Morrigan used for their respective purposes: Soren had been seeking a cure to the taint and the Calling for years, while Morrigan carried on her vocation of recovering ancient lore. Connor had seen it, although Soren doubted the younger mage had known what it was except an artefact of great size and strange glass. The mirror was not hidden, just secured.

For years their primary concern had been keeping anyone within the Vigil from falling through or tampering with the Eluvian. Servants never entered the workshop, although most would have hesitated to trespass in the private space of mages anyways. When Morrigan was away from the Keep Soren typically kept the door locked as only he and Morrigan had the keys to it. When they were both gone from the castle, it was not just locked but then magically sealed to prevent tampering.

It had never occurred to them that the danger would be something else coming through the mirror and _into_ the Vigil. Nor had the same thought ever occurred to the Lady Inquisitor.

At times like these Soren wished he had made a real effort to keep in contact with the Qunari Sten he had befriended and respected during the Blight. Alistair had seen him and knew he was Arishok now after the devastation wrought at Kirkwall, but Soren himself had been too involved destroying golems, hunting Darkspawn, and trying to find a place to start with a cure to continuously send letters to Par Vollen addressed only to "Sten of the Beresaad". Writing to the Arishok now with nothing but _'What the hell are you doing with those el'vhen mirrors? Enjoy the enclosed cookies.'_ didn't seem worth the embarrassment.

Morrigan wanted the eluvian out of Vigil's Keep. Soren was not thrilled with this idea because it required the fuss and mess of actually moving the twelve-foot-tall mirror without scratching or damaging it. The move had been stressful enough the first time, and finding a new location for it would not be easy. He didn't want it to be more than a few hours from the fortress either. That mirror was Morrigan's link to and from home, he wanted it close without actually being inside the castle and posing a threat to the people living there.

He'd agreed to the move but left most of the decision-making to her. It was her mirror, her area of expertise. Soren's expertise was for completely different things: he was an Arl and an Archmage and a Grey Warden, and most importantly, at dawn he was a guild patron.

He spent most of the remaining night in the laboratory doing whatever he could be bothered to with the reagents, texts, and the looming presence of the mirror itself. When Morrigan slunk in to coax him back to bed, he consented. The laboratory was cold, their room was warm, and he liked the smell of her hair even if it wasn't enough to push him to sleep.

At dawn Soren saw Ansera again. The tranquil was in a miserable state but would not die from his fever. He had a warm brazier burning by his bed and Soren assigned a servant to oversee his meals and care. Magic could heal injuries but it couldn't banish a fever, only ease the symptoms and suffering. Ansera was not emotionally effected by his condition but he was still in physical pain and too weak to do more than lay there glassy-eyed and more vacant than normal. Soren filled the failed mage's body with soothing warm energy again to ease the pain and shivering, and after Ansera had eaten and swallowed a great deal of tea he smothered the tranquil in another sleeping spell that knocked him out completely. He would not die from this damned fever.

It was Soren's turn in the rain after that. He took Oghren and Warden Mahanon Lavellan with him on horseback to Amaranthine City. They rode for much of the morning with Soren blatantly ignoring his constable repeatedly saying _'So you traded the one elf for another elf'_ and _'why are you always travelling with elves it's like you're best friends with one of them'_ and _'stop fighting with Zevran it's upsetting the kids. And by kids I mean Wardens'_.

" _Stop,"_ he hissed, and heeled his horse for more speed in the rain just to give Oghren something _else_ to complain about. Lavellan at least kept his mouth _shut_ for the long ride.

While Chantry Mothers and Sisters administered to their flock throughout the week, the day of rest was when _all_ of the faithful who were otherwise too busy for the Maker to come to the Chantries and partake of Andraste's Song. Amaranthine City of course had more than the one sanctuary beyond Our Lady Redeemer, but the cathedral's bells announced the day of rest with more gusto than the smaller sanctuaries scattered throughout the many city wards. Soren was just thankful that the day of rest and prayer meant that he could, most likely, get in and on with his business today without anyone saying the words "Grand", "Cleric", or "Brona" to him in the same sentence.

They were not here to encroach on Bann Talbind's day and force him to play host to his Arl.

They were not here because of travel itineraries for the Grey Wardens moving about Thedas on their Commander's orders.

They were here to visit the guild Soren had founded and still heavily patroned as an Archmage: the Formari Guildsmen of Amaranthine.

In a city like Amaranthine a great deal of places could be described as "just off the market", what mattered most was _which_ market you were referring to. Logic and good city planning should have placed the guildsmen down in the midtown market where the related crafters guilds had their homes: carpenters, glass blowers, weavers, jewellers, book-binders, printers, apothecaries, perfumeries, and _so on_. However, at the time of their founding Soren had possessed neither the immediate wealth nor the generosity to bully and push around enough of the mid-town market's crowded neighbourhood to make space for the tranquil. So no, they were not in the place they belonged.

They were close to the vendor's market where the fruits, fabrics and grain from the Arling passed onto ships bound for other ports around Ferelden's north shore and away across the sea to the Free Marches. Seafood, wines, grains, fruits, leathers, timber, wool, textiles, stone, and other raw materials traded hands in bulk quantities, but wherever there were hard-working labourers and sailors there was also an abundance of cheap food and cheaper ale. This was not the safest district Soren could have placed a group of people who knew no sense of fear and had a conditioned need to please and display obedience.

But they had endured.

He had shoved the tranquil into the first vacant stone building on comparatively cheap property he could find: an abandoned smithy ' _just off the market'_. The solid stone foundation and thick walls had been appealing to the only two tranquil Soren had allowed to have any input in the decision to purchase and renovate the building. Soren himself had just wanted something solid enough to put them inside, big enough for them to actually put the space to use, and yet still inside the city walls so there could be no accusations of him ultimately abandoning them.

The low stone building had been expanded with a second story after the initial purchase, making it a tall granite square now, with the College of Enchanters' banners fluttering from the second story windows and the Bear of Amaranthine prowling in the wooden frames detailing the wood. It was wide and part of the building's lower floor was cut down into the bedrock much of Amaranthine sat atop. The front doors were open and protected by a tall blue awning that shielded two steel-clad members of the city guard: the effective protection provided for the tranquil inside.

The formari had also purchased two adjacent buildings in the last few years to accommodate for their guild's needs, with Soren leaving those transactions to the guidance and care of Bann Talbind. He could look up now and the three-story stone and wood construct next to them bore plenty of signs of fresh construction: newly woven banners with the Formari's glowing hand dripping in the heavy rain, old wooden beams resting against new stones and fresh mortar. The second building was located behind the square façade Soren was most familiar with, and was similarly two stories tall.

For a guild that made as much money as the Formari and their high-quality, specially enchanted wares, the increasing size of the complex made sense. Soren hoped they would request and make plans for a wall soon, it would ease his sense of obligation to them.

"Lavellan, unless you need something from inside then you two are free to find someplace to warm up and settle for a few hours." They left their horses in the care of one of the district stables, and Soren gave his dismissal to the two Wardens as the complex formed from the city lanes.

"You weren't kidding when you said we were going to ride into the city just to ride back again, were you?" Lavellan asked him.

"I never kid, it requires a sense of humour." Oghren laughed at him, Lavellan just looked annoyed.

And yet the Dalish mage followed him. Mahanon Lavellan was clan and kin the Lady Inquisitor, and had arrived in Amaranthine four years ago destitute and seeking a way to his clanswoman's keep, Skyhold. Soren had not been in Amaranthine to recruit him as he'd been off in the deep roads and making inquiries and painful excursions both above and below grounds looking for the secrets of a cure. Lavellan had somehow found his way into the Silver Order with intentions of joining the Grey Wardens, but his change of heart about the Inquisitor had never explained itself in Soren's presence. With the threat of war between Amaranthine and Redcliffe Soren had consented to give him the chalice a year ago with the other willing members of the Silver Order, and Lavellan had served well for a man his age: he was easily ten years Soren's senior. His only real draw-back was that he was Dalish-trained, not Circle, with his magic.

Oghren grumbled but declined to drink alone, following Soren and Lavellan through the Guild's open doors.

The first thing Soren noticed was the burn of sandalwood up his nose. The second was the barely resisted curl of his own lips with the intrusive thought: _'I hate tranquil_ '.

The fine granite floors of the guild shop opened in front of them with a perimeter of tables blocking access to walls bricked with shelves filled with magical supplies and potions. Crafting reagents, books, herb bundles, swords and daggers and spears in standing cases, vambraces and gloves and catalogues of fabrics for woven clothing, broaches, amulets, rings, and belts. If there was a way for the formari to meld lyrium into the item, then it was available for sale in their guild.

"Ashera!" For such a rainy day, Soren was modestly surprised to hear a small fuss right by the entryway as they came inside. One of the guards they passed was also giving a cautious look inside, but then took note of the Grey Wardens and went back to minding his post. " _Ash-er-ah ,_ that's his name, and he's supposed to be here. _"_

The speaker was quite loud and had not been present for long: his short, ratty leather cape was dripping and his black braid was a wet rope down his back, bangs shedding water over the table he was leaning across. He was elven, and a tall one. His short breeches, thin sleeves and leather armour girdle all suggested a sailor by trade: not the sort of person who should have had the coin to enter this place.

"There are no guildsmen by that name," the branded woman answered him with her blank, monotone voice. Soren wouldn't have paid them any more attention except that the elf, who was in front of them, didn't take kindly to the news.

"Well where the hell else am I supposed to go looking for a tranquil in Amaranthine?" He demanded, but with more exasperation than violence, hands in the air that quickly fell again. "Are there other workshops? Other guilds? Did you go and loan him out to the blacksmiths or something?" Fereldan accent, but somewhere south. Soren was only standing here still because the tall sailor was blocking the way to move beyond the shop floor and into the guild itself. "Aren't you supposed to have a manifesto or something of all your members? Like cargo and crew on a ship?"

"I am capable of checking the registry," the failed mage replied in her dead tone. "But there is no Jeevan Ashera among the Formari Guildsmen of Amaranthine."

Soren closed his eyes, shit. Next to him Lavellan's muted curiosity over the exchange shifted to full attention. Oghren was playing with the sounds of _An-ser-ah_ and _Ash-er-ah_ by repeating them over and over again as if the slip of a chantry pen was so difficult to assume.

"That's why I asked if there's _another_ guild I can go check." Whoever this elf was, the Wardens knew who he was looking for.

"There is not. Please wait one moment while I check the list of names."

"I'll be here." The sailor's voice was heavy with disappointment as the tranquil turned and vanished in her blue and white robes. His expectations were low, and at his feet he kicked at the large canvas bag resting on the floor. It knocked over and he grabbed it by its drawstring cord, hefting it up enough to grab it by the neck and move out of the way.

He saw them briefly and then looked a second time. He was darker, almost Rivaini like Ansera himself, and the folds of his pierced ears moved more out than up, making them more obvious. Again, a trait he shared with the compounder. Soren was not enjoying the way things were shaping up. The frown he gave them was followed by bitter words.

"Isn't _three_ a bit much?" He grumbled, addressing them but more for the sake of filling the air with words. His annoyance faded and he carried his bag away from the table and stood apart from the wares, dropping it again and folding his dark arms. His shirt didn't go down much further than his shoulders and his cape had no fur inside of it to keep him warm. He'd come off a northern ship to be dressed like this in Ferelden of all places. "I'm not stealing nothin' from a bunch of mages." And then he turned away, arms still folded, standing too far from any table to attempt to slip something into his pockets.

Tranquil were not mages.

"I ain't no city guard," Oghren grumbled, folding his own arms in a surly way. Like the elf however, he spoke simply to be heard and looked away after the tranquil woman. Soren ignored both of them and proceeded through the-

"Commander," -damn it, Lavellan.

"Yes?" He looked and the Dalish Warden was looking at him very openly from under the blue-edged cowl of his silverite hood. Soren was wearing his own helmet after their ride through the rain. Mahanon's green eyes were the sort of bright and wide colour humans _loved_ to liken to grass and leaves and other elfy things, the fact that the man was past forty couldn't compete with those idyllic little phrases.

Why was he feeling so sensitive? Soren couldn't give himself a _shake_ but he felt distaste crawling up his throat. He didn't want to feel like this.

"Sir, he's a taller version of Ansera." And Ansera was already noteworthy for his height.

"You're the last person I expected to hear say _all elves look the same_ , Mahanon."

"Are you saying your Chantry never made a mistake when writing down names?" This was important to him, _wonderful_.

"I did not say _anything_ about the Chantry, Warden, and in this place: you won't either." Soren wasn't going to fight with him, he had enough people waiting to do that back at Vigil's Keep. He was severe but then made the choice to relent, nodding directly to the elf who was no longer looking at them but was probably aware of their whispering. "Fine. _You there_ , sailor."

Soren stepped forward, sword at his side and staff across his back. The elf proved he'd been paying attention by turning quickly, and the movement of his cape showed how close his fingers were to the hilts of several knives. He was cautious, and that was not unwise, but he did not drop his hands and that made him a mild threat.

"I'll be about my business shortly, Serrah, as soon as the lady comes back," he explained himself politely enough for there to be no insult. "I'll not trouble the guild further once I have my answer."

"Formari services are expensive even for the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, what business does a man of your station have that requires one of them?" It was a loaded question and Soren meant it as such, aware that Lavellan would probably disapprove but not be able to say as much. "Are you on an errand from your captain, perhaps?"

"Grey War-? Oh, oh that's a bear…" No, it was not the Amaranthine Bear on Soren's armour, it was a completely different animal. The elf dropped his arms away from his knives. "It's only a personal matter, Grey Warden, I'm looking for my brother."

"From among the tranquil?" Soren pressed. Now that the sailor was looking at him the similarities were becoming more obvious. The same colour green in his eyes, but with thin scars from knife-blades tugging at his lips and cuffing under his dark jaw. His nose was more flat than long and his chin was square to match. He looked like Ansera only more rugged and weather-worn, clearly older than the tranquil and heavier from a life of labour.

"My brother Jeevan was taken from the Gwaren Alienage when we were boys, and sent to the Circle of Magi." The sailor explained. It was the right city. "We never heard from him again, not until last year when travellers who claimed to know him showed up and started asking questions. They said he survived the war but he's a tranquil and can't travel, so he's living here now in Amaranthine."

"A whole year to come looking for him?" Soren questioned, just following idle curiosity now.

"You marked me right as a sailor, Serrah." And then the man did a strange thing: he broke into a smile and gave a dumb little laugh. "It's not like I could just tell the Captain that _no no,_ we don't need to go to Wycome and back to Antiva City again! _Definitely_ better to fight the summer trade winds back to Ferelden." Trying to get any sort of letter from Gwaren to a sailor criss-crossing the trade routes could have taken a year just by itself. Soren let the topic settle, providing the opening for:

"I have completed checking the registry," that monotone nothing from the tranquil woman. "There has never been a Jeevan Ashera among the Formari Guildsmen of Ferelden. Perhaps you would like to try another name?" The sailor's face fell completely, and he shook his head at her.

"I know my brother's name," he said, admitting defeat. "Maybe they meant the Arling and not the city, but in that case I haven't got time or coin enough to search the whole territory for him." He waved off the tranquil the way a normal shop keep may have understood, but she merely stood there staring blankly with no tasks to focus herself on. Uncomfortable with her stare, the elf looked at Soren again and inclined his head. "I'll let you get on with your business, Grey Warden and get back to what a man of _my station_ ought to be doing. Good day."

He took up his bag and walked away, giving Soren a wide berth and a respectful nod towards Oghren and Lavellan. Soren let him go, counting quietly to three in his head.

He heard Lavellan take a breath to say something stupid and interrupted his warden:

"Master Ansera," Soren called firmly, and turned after the elf who had stopped short. The sailor looked at him in surprise, but then a trace of confusion crossed his dark face.

"I- it's _Ashera_ , Grey Warden." Bold of him to lay down the correction in this city of all places, but to be fair he'd been on a boat for the last year. "Is there something I can do for you?" His tone was doubtful.

"It's wrong, but close enough." Soren told him and let the implied insult do its dirty work for him. "What does your brother look like, sailor?"

"Maker, I haven't seen him since we were kids. Why?"

"Give me a guess then. You want to find him, don't you?" The sailor considered this odd request, then gave an elaborate shrug and roll of his head.

"Best I have is what our mother used to say. Black hair she could never keep from flying everywhere, and green eyes like mine. I guess he'd be a bit lighter than I am after being locked up in a tower for years. Oh, and, that mark thing they've all got on their faces. He's probably got that." Good enough.

"May I know your name, sailor?" He was making the other elf very, very uncomfortable with these questions, but it was the price Soren was going to demand for having to find a fourth horse and have Garevel work out possible accommodations for this… _brother_.

"Samar Ashera, Grey Warden," Ansera's brother answered, and then showed his wrist where he wore a tooled arm-band of leather and a company design. "Contracted with the Eighth Lion Merchant Fleet, and most recently of their ship the Lady Freeborn from Wycome."

"And how long is the Lady Freeborn in port here in Amaranthine?"

"Three days, Serrah. Do you need something shipped? Our next port of call is Kirkwall." Two nights' accommodations wouldn't make much difference to the Vigil.

"No, Master Ashera. But there is a tranquil elf who looks remarkably similar to you working at Vigil's Keep." The sailor's nerves dropped like dead weight, his shoulders fell, head up straight. Soren could have bounced a coin off his forehead. "Understand, if you will, that a young elven apprentice could hardly be expected to argue with the Circle for saying his name wrong- or for simply changing it outright. Compounder _Ansera_ is contracted from the Guildsmen to keep the Grey Wardens supplied and our fortress serviced as a chemist."

"Andraste's tits, thank you!" Ashera hooted, hands up like he might rush Soren with an incredibly unwise embrace. "Where- exactly, is Vigil's Keep? I've never been further inland in Amaranthine than the city walls."

"Half-day's ride south, the road marks it clearly." Soren made himself smile. He did not want to smile. He made himself look happy to have obliged the sailor with his help. At least saying the word _ride_ dampened some of the other elf's enthusiasm. Half-day's ride meant a full day's walk, or coin for a horse. "Warden Lavellan, since you seem so invested in this…"

"Not for me, sir." Mahanon told him quickly but without heat. Oh, he probably wanted to be sharp with Soren, but hadn't he gone ahead and done what the older Warden _wanted?_ "For Warden Velanna. But yes, Master Ashera, what the Commander says is true."

"The Comma-what?" Ashera wisely blundered.

"He'll even pay fer your horse, elf." Oghren made the stupid announcement and Soren- "He owes me five silver anyways." –bit his tongue.

Ashera turned back to look at Soren, intimidation and fear running quick and fast through him. Good. It was something.

"You're the _who-?"_

"Wardens, I still have my business to begin with Guildmaster Owain," so he brushed aside the gobsmacked elf with a careless gesture and change of subject. Let him sweat it out. "If Master Ashera is newly arrived in the city, perhaps he'll appreciate a hot meal and a drink while the Guildmaster and I meet. Let him make the decision of what to do with his shore-leave on his own terms. Make sure I can find you when I'm done."

"Yessir."

"Yes, Commander Surana."

Soren's Wardens left with Ansera's brother still spluttering and confused between them. The last thing Soren heard was a shocked _'was that the Hero of-!?'_ before they were out in the drizzling rain again.

"I apologize on behalf of the Guildsmen for our rowdy patron, Archmage Surana." The blank-faced woman who had observed all of this stated in her dull voice. "I understand from your statement that you wish to speak with Formari Guildmaster Owain. Shall I find him for you?"

"Kindly yes," Soren answered, still looking the way his men had gone. "He will not be expecting me, but tell him I have business regarding the Guild's charter. He will not keep me waiting for long."

"Yes, your grace."

The Formari left to perform her task.

Soren stood there, and he waited.

* * *

 **Care to comment? See you with chapter 9 in a few days!**


	9. The Guild Charter

**I'm working on a 12,000 word chapter at present please send help**

* * *

 ** _Echoes of Arlathan_**

The Guild Charter

Owain did not leave Soren waiting long.

Although it was not his favourite thing to dwell on, the Arl and the Guildmaster had known one another for many, many years. In fact, there were few people still alive today whom Soren had known for _longer_ than Owain in one form or another. Within a week of each other the senior apprentice had vanished from the same dormitory that Soren had been accosted and dragged from by the Templars for his Harrowing. Unlike Harrowed Apprentices who had reappeared the next morning dizzy and delirious from lyrium, the Tranquil had always vanished for a period of days before finally emerging from the bowels of the tower to take up their new duties.

Soren and Owain had reappeared on the same morning on completely divergent paths. One, a Mage; the other, a Tranquil.

Owain had submitted to the Rite of Tranquility willfully, or as willingly as someone could in the face of certain death. They had not been friends before the Rite and had certainly never attempted it afterwards, in fact: Soren was very firmly against reliving _any_ memories of a boisterous, loud, and frankly stupid upperclassman. That person had died years ago, it was just an echo of him that met Soren in the Guildhall.

"Arl Surana. I did not know to expect you." Owain's face, without a real spirit to give it life, was perpetually sad. It was as if the Rite had condemned him to live like a man forever watching his home burn away in the pouring rain. His face was as hopeless as what little of his rust-coloured hair remained around his ears and the back of his head. He was dreary and miserable, his voice dull and utterly blank.

"Guildmaster Owain." Soren inclined his head as far as was necessary, along with the proper courtesy: "Are your people well, and your guild properly supplied?"

"Yes, your grace." For how uncomfortable Owain's existence was, he was still somehow not as pathetic as he had been on that night six years ago when he'd staggered his way wet and shivering into Vigil's Keep. Gone were the tattered robes and shoes with worn-out soles and open holes across the toes. No more half-starved cheeks and sickly darkness around his sad eyes. He wasn't shivering too hard to speak the way he had been on that strange night when he'd pleaded as well as a Tranquil could for sanctuary:

" _If we are not permitted to remain in Vigil's Keep then we will surely perish of exposure before any other violence befalls us."_ That was what he'd said and as Owain felt no compulsion to exaggerate or lie, he'd meant it. They would have died but Soren had not allowed it.

Permitting two Tranquil into the Vigil had been almost nothing to him, it had been the four only two days behind them. The seven the month after that. The stragglers brought to Amaranthine by either their mage or Templar sympathizers. Taking in two of the Tranquil had been an obvious and easily accepted burden to Soren. Feeding and trying to accommodate over thirty of them just in the first two months had been overwhelming. When they'd tried to sway him to let them build a hall for themselves within the Vigil's complex or on the periphery beyond her walls he had shut the idea down: absolutely _not_. They were better off in the city and well away from _him_.

"I've come today to see you about your Guild's charter, Owain. Take me inside." The Tranquil nodded to him, the heavy gold chain and medallion of his office swaying as he made the motion before turning away to do as commanded. They left the public front of the guild hall by stepping around the tables and then under a rich purple curtain, which moved them along the edge of a busy but _quiet_ workshop and then down a stone corridor.

Owain wore his chain and that was all that openly distinguished him from the other Tranquil in his care. His robe was exactly the same as Ansera's: white sleeves and a dark blue body and white hood, keys jangling at his belt. He kept the hood up, they all did: hiding their brands from one another as well as anyone like Soren who was unfortunate enough to have business behind the curtain.

They finally reached an office, and Owain went directly to a large cabinet resting against the back wall behind his wide desk. Both were fine pieces of furniture and reminded Soren vaguely of the large items used to fill the empty rooms of the Circle tower. It made sense: the Tranquil had constructed everything they could for the Circle, so that had probably included the furniture.

"There is seating available." Soren could see that, but declined with a simple gesture. "Is there a specific clause within the Charter that you wish to discuss?"

"Yes." He gave the simple answer first, standing there with his arms folded. "There is an issue regarding the safety of all guild members that I would like to see properly addressed. If the Charter doesn't already cover the matter, then I will see it amended."

"I understand." The case was unlocked with a mundane key, and then the white light of a rune was ignited with a mark Owain traced with the end of another key. He drew the runes together in a complex web, and the case gave a seize and release before opening properly. Inside was a large leather-bound ledger, not deep, but very tall and wide in dimension. Owain grasped the book and brought it to his desk, then returned to the case to shut the doors, then came _back_ to the desk.

His slow need to take tasks one by one by one took long enough for Soren to open the cover of the Charter himself. He was surprised when he didn't lift it to find the illuminated face of the guild crest, but rather a stack of neatly ordered pages? These weren't part of the Charter, but since when did Formari mis-place-?

"My apologies, Arl Surana." Owain was quick for a Tranquil to return to the desk and gather the pages. They were the same dimensions as the book and there were perhaps five or six sheets printed over with controlled, neat tranquil script. "These are not ready for you."

"What are they?" He interrupted Owain's cleaning with a hand pressing down over the top sheet. He let the pointed fingertips of his gauntlets mark the supple paper, and Owain stopped moving to prevent him from tearing them.

"Amendments to the Charter." The Guildmaster answered him and then relented completely, handing the pages over to him. Soren took the wide sheets in hand and then looked behind him for that chair. He hooked a foot behind it and dragged it closer, then sat down. Owain had displayed tact! That was not the actual name of the document Soren was holding. Instead, it was:

 _A Compilation of Recommendations for the Consideration of the Formari Guildsmen of Amaranthine._

These weren't even at the point of being amendments, they were- there were a lot of them? And they…?

Soren read from the first page and doubted he hid his surprise:

"' _On the matter of personal payment to guild members based on a system of organized labour and disregarding previous models of payment via output'_? You're giving your people individual wages now?"

"It is a raw proposal, Arl Surana."

"It's been six years, Owain, you're not exactly living hand-to-mouth anymore." Meaning the guild could afford it. Soren had always understood that the Tranquil had a communal life based around supporting one another. The guild fed, clothed, and cared for its individual members as part of a collective, and either provided for one another's safety as a group or by relying on their lobbying power to get help from Soren himself or the city guard when issues arose. He continued reading: " _'The acquisition of modest individual wealth permits the expression of modest individual preferences in the potential but not limited case of the following: supplementary diet, personal clothing, personal accessories, the patronage of other workshops, guilds, and markets, the acquisition of leisure texts and items…'_ to be further described in point three?"

"It is a raw proposal, Arl Surana." Owain repeated himself as Soren searched for this third point. It was on the fourth page and took up the entire sheet, but at the top inked in red was the bullet name: _'On the Availability and Promotion of Leisure Hours Within the Chantry Week and Culmination upon a Day of Rest on One Day Out of Every Seven.'_

"Your members work straight through the week?" He asked. Why wouldn't they work throughout the week? They were tranquil, it's not like they had anything better to do with their time except labour in their workshops… except that whoever had written this had already addressed that point and provided a list of possible activities: personal grooming, extended hours of sleep, walking for the purpose of familiarity with the local environment as well as personal fitness, and so on…

There was even a notation stating that providing individual wealth and then allotting time for that wealth to be utilized would benefit the reputation of the Guild _'as a promotional unit of the city's economy rather than a drain on the flow of gold that is currently only ever expelled via taxation'_. The writer cautioned the guild against hoarding gold unless they meant to expose themselves to higher taxes from Amaranthine City and Arling, or the possibility of outright theft.

Someone was propositioning the Guildsmen to give their members individual pay, reduced work hours, and a work week that was more in line with what most craft and guildsmen applied to themselves.

The second and third pages were about enshrining care for the infirm and the aging members of the guild- they cautioned against withholding food and medicine from those unable to complete a quota of work?

"Are these your ideas, Guildmaster?" Soren finally looked up from the pages scattered over his lap and the arms of his chair. Owain was still standing, his hands hanging limp at his sides, the Guild Charter open on the desk between them.

"No, your grace."

"Who wrote this?"

"A guild member of specific affluence." Soren meant to chase him for a better answer but Owain blinked sharply and reconsidered himself first. "The draft before you was indeed penned by my hand, but only as a means of providing proper and clear presentation of the guild member's ideas and concerns. The contents of the document did not originate with me."

"Then with whom? I would like to meet this one." If only just to marvel at how a _Tranquil_ was supposedly motivated enough to go writing a treatise about their own guild. An _affluent_ Tranquil was unheard of. It was like calling Soren's chair charismatic. Owain did not give him the name however, he merely stood there with that blank nothing. "Guildmaster, I will not ask again: who wrote this?"

"Jylan Ansera, Second Level Compounder and Tranquil of nine years tenure." _Fuck_. "I remain in possession of his original letters on this subject."

"Bring them out," Soren grumbled, and Owain moved from his desk to another wall bricked in books, withdrawing another ledger in similar style to the book housing the guild charter. When he opened this book Soren noted how each page was slightly wrinkled from glue and wax that had sealed the letters inside the book. "Do you… keep all your correspondence in this manner?" He could not.

"Yes." He wasn't _serious._

"You and I exchange letters and notices several times a month, Owain."

"The top shelf contains my correspondences with you, Arl Surana." Maker's _Breath_ , it had to be the most boring catalogue in all of Thedas! "Before my promotion to Formari Quartermaster of Kinloch Hold, I was employed as an Archivist. Under such employment I gained an appreciation for properly preserved texts."

Soren dropped the subject. He didn't understand Tranquil and he did not like them enough to go any further down this nug hole. He was presented with Ansera's letters to and from his guild over the last year, and held back a _groan_.

He should have known; Owain did the same thing to him. Rather than read a letter and pen a reply, the Tranquil were compelled by some unseen force to _re-write_ the entire letter before addressing any of it or continuing the conversation. Supposedly it meant that both writers ended up with a complete copy of the entire discourse, but in reality it wasted an obscene amount of ink, paper, and Soren's patience when he was forever opening letters from the Guild only to hear his own words being echoed back at him for the first page and a half.

Every letter in the book started with an address _to_ Ansera, Owain's letter, and then Ansera's reply. Soren wasn't going to sit here and read a year's worth of correspondence; he could already see that too much of it was about reagents, but what kept him actually looking was the _math_.

Equations, variables, fractions, percentages. Soren recognized most of the formulas for weight, time, transport, and division as things the Guild would need its member to be aware of when he requisitioned items for the Vigil, but Ansera apparently did the budgeting not just for Vigil's Keep, but the guild as well? How much items cost the guild to produce was checked against how much the Vigil agreed to spend on requisitions, and Ansera's arguments always fell somewhere in the middle. Some of Owain's replies were corrections to Ansera's numbers. One of Ansera's rebuttals was a single line:

" _Incorrect. The price is 0.3 per unit as-per your reply dated Cloudreach 16_ _th_ _9:44 Dragon. No."_

Finally, Soren came to a series of stiff pages that was just… numbers. And numbers. And more and more numbers covering several sheets of parchment. There were alchemical marks that denoted materials, Soren's eyes only immediately familiar with the marks for silver, gold, copper, and lyrium, but it was enough. The equations were broken up by a single line each time: Compounder Third Rank. Compounder Second Rank. Compounder First Rank. Chemist. Archivist. Carpenter. Formari Third Rank. Formari Second Rank. Formari First Rank. Guildmaster. There were many, many more…

Ansera had worked out and then proposed the calculations for _how much_ each rank in the guild should be paid… This was… Soren was looking at several _weeks'_ worth of work here. And- yes. He double-checked the wage of Ansera's own rank as a Second Level Compounder: he'd halved his wages at Vigil's Keep and used that number as the base for all of his calculations. Owain had replied with the same mind-boggling list of numbers and then additional corrections.

Soren closed the volume. He didn't like how unsettled this left him feeling. Owain let him have his silence. Finally, Soren had to speak.

"Present the proposals to your guild members." He didn't know what else he had to say after that, but he found words just the same. "Present me with a copy of what you decide and we'll ratify the changes together." Owain reminded silent until Soren placed the pages back in order and held them up, speaking as he took the document back.

"You do not object to the proposals?"

"I object to the idea of anyone labouring in this city without payment." He answered, muddling through the strange unease in his gut. "Every other guild manages to give its workers leisure and time off without running into trouble. And I'm a healer, Owain: tell me those provisions for care and protection of the ill aren't responding to a crisis in your hall."

"They are not," Owain told him. And then out came the unnecessary spiel of: "Our intentions are only to enshrine current practices undertaken by members of the guild. Consideration for those who arrived in Amaranthine in a state disagreeable to long hours of focus and work prevented us from following practices previously observed within the Circle tower at the inception of our guild. At no point since the founding has returning to the Circles' method of measuring permitted rations against labouring output been considered appealing to the guild members, and thus the working practice of adequate nutrition for all members has remained an unofficial aspect of life within the hall. With this proposal, such allowances and insurance of adequate care will be formally recognized." Soren raised a hand to make sure Owain _stopped_. He understood well enough and had already given the Tranquil his permission or his blessing or whatever it was he needed to proceed with the changes. Soren's problem now was that he was still bothered by something, and it was hard to try and put it into words.

He didn't like this growing habit of his thoughts getting muddled before reaching his mouth. He forced the issue out over his tongue: _speak_.

"You respect Ansera, don't you, Owain?" Owain didn't bluntly hit him with _'I don't understand the question_ ' so apparently respect was something a Tranquil could still comprehend. "That you're taking his suggestions and not just brushing them aside, or telling him to stay in his place."

"The Compounder's arguments hold merit." The Guildmaster answered in that detached, airy voice his kind had. "There is much I could say on the matter, but I will settle for the most direct matter: yes, I respect him."

"Why?"

"Before being forced to submit to the Rite of Tranquility, Compounder Ansera communed frequently with a Spirit of Loyalty from the Fade." Soren… felt like he should have known this. It resonated with him like something he'd known but then forgotten, or disregarded.

Connor. Connor had told him this. Connor who had forged a friendship with two Spirits in the Fade: his own Kindness and Ansera's Loyalty.

"I believe that contact affected his present ability to forge and maintain a sense of trust with other people," Owain continued, coming around to his own answer. "Although tranquility is often synonymous for many people with obedience, when given the choice many of us choose to remain among our own. Ansera instead chose and made strong arguments in favour of his posting to Vigil's Keep despite my certainty that he was placing himself in harm's way by going. I did not trust his judgement, but my caution was proven unnecessary. His decisions concerning other people and their habits have rarely proven unwise." Now wasn't that just the strangest thing to…

"What harm did you see befalling him, exactly?" Soren was very aware of the storm still dumping water down outside the guildhall, of Our Lady Redeemer's shadow over the city.

"Abuse at the hands of Warden Guerrin, the former Circle Mage who removed him from the guild." Soren _reeled_.

"I- _excuse me?_ " That was- actually rather funny? Owain had thought _Connor_ of all living breathing people would-? That he would _actually..?_ "Owain, that's the most ridiculous thing you've ever said to me."

"Archmage Surana you forget yourself on a subject which does you no credit." Soren stopped smiling, he no longer found the matter funny. Had he just been _reprimanded_? "Jylan Ansera is an elven tranquil I permitted to leave the guild in the company of a human mage I did not know except that he once lived within Kinloch Hold and currently resides under your command as a Grey Warden and magical protégé. Upon reflection it may come to pass that I was not as thorough about communicating my expectations to you as was intended via our correspondence."

"Guildmaster-" Owain ignored him? Spoke over him? Soren had _never-_

"It was my understanding that any instances of exploitation or abuse of a Formari Guildsman within your own keep would be met with swift and unmistaken censure from your office." The Formari was speaking over him, voice toneless and hollow but certainly _loud_ enough to make his interruption both intentional and heard. "If this assumption has been made in error then you will permit me to revoke Compounder Ansera's posting to Vigil's Keep and see to his immediate return to Amaranthine City."

Owain stopped speaking and Soren was too shocked to say anything back. They'd come full circle without the Tranquil realizing it and he didn't like the sense of cold, empty void that filled the space between them. He should have been angry, it would have been so easy to change the mood by letting anger be his voice and reprimand Owain right back for his behaviour.

The problem was that Owain had already stopped speaking and Soren still wasn't angry. Anger would be an obvious front at this point. He would not be perceived as hiding something again.

"Your assumption was not made in error, Guildmaster Owain," Soren told him, speaking smoothly from his seat across from the standing Tranquil. Soren had one elbow down on the arm of his chair, and he wasn't sitting straight up or rigidly. He had nothing to fear or be cautious of coming from Owain, but that didn't mean he had to antagonize him either. "I'm going to forgive you for your tone with me just this once because this is a sensitive matter among the Tranquil, and I respect that. Do recall that I am here today to ensure that _your people_ have a charter which protects them."

He opened a hand to the desk, indicating the very document he'd just named.

"May I inquire as to what prompted this need for verification, your grace?" Here it was.

"Suspected abuse of Compounder Ansera." Owain's eyes lifted from him. He was not capable of feeling anger but Soren made a fist with his raised hand anyways, trying to command his attention back down. "Which has already been met with my swift and unmistakeable censure. Owain, focus please."

"I would know the details of this incident." Soren mediated his own response to this… strongly worded _request_.

"The storm caused a blow to Compounder Ansera's health yesterday and he fell ill." He made certain to omit any mention of the chantry: that was for Garevel to handle. "Before I arrived, he was alone with one of my Wardens who was tending to his fever. It remains to be seen if he was speaking from delirium or in earnest, but he was insisting on his lack of right to resist her."

"I would know the traits of this Grey Warden." Of course he would.

"A Dalish warrior, elven like Ansera," Soren reported. He didn't have to, but it was enough to bring Owain's gaze back down to him. Yesterday would have gone very differently if Ansera had been alone in that room with a former Templar, or any other human really. "Ignorant of the Tranquil and until yesterday her interest in him seemed harmless enough. She knows better now, but if she gives me cause to act then hear me, Owain: I shall."

"This remains an undesireable blow to my confidence in Compounder Ansera's safety."

"Can we not proceed with the matter at hand?" Soren tried to push him to the real meat of the matter. "Guildmaster, I want to know in no uncertain terms what the Guild Charter has to say regarding this kind of abuse against its members. How are these things handled? Has it even come up since the guild was founded? Will you go to the city guard, to the Bann, or to myself? I am not always in residence at Vigil's Keep and cannot ride into the city to bring down judgement every time something happens, but I want you and I to be clear on what steps should be taken."

"It has come up." Somehow that was not what he'd expected to hear. "During the period of caution wherein many of the Tranquil were vanishing off the city streets on minor errands, we brought in measures restricting the need to leave the complex. After the rise of the Inquisition, several former Templars made their way to Amaranthine City seeking out their previous… charges."

Soren's mind filled in the word Owain disregarded. The Templars had come looking for their _possessions_.

"As I said, I am not always present in Amaranthine." It was the Lady Inquisitor who had finally told him that it was the Tevinter Venatori behind the abductions of the Tranquil abandoned by the broken Circles. He knew what had become of them as well, and had even held one of the ocularum while visiting Skyhold. The evil thing had made his skin crawl… "How were the Templars handled?"

"One by the city guard who arrested and had him ordered from the city. Another by a patron of the workshop who disagreed with the scene unfolding in the front room and killed her. A third was killed by another guild member, who was promptly handed over to the Bann of Amaranthine on charges of murder. Bann Talbind granted a pardon." Good, Soren didn't want that brand of justice on his hands. "Several others were encouraged to depart after the Tranquil they came to collect swallowed deathroot as an acceptable alternative."

"Maker's _Breath_ , Owain!" No! That was exactly what Soren wanted to _prevent!_ "Answer me directly this time: does your Charter cover these matters?" It didn't sound like it did, not if-

"No, your grace." Andraste's Mercy, he was supposed to be their _patron!_ Whether or not he liked the Tranquil didn't matter: he'd said he would protect them, that meant he would _protect them_.

"Then I'm not leaving until it does." He wouldn't break his word over something this simple!

"Yes, your grace."

And Soren did not leave until it was _done_.


	10. Persistence

**Been a very rough week this week, but here's an update! I should have another one tomorrow.**

* * *

 ** _Echoes of Arlathan_**

Persistence

"Jylan?"

The pain was concentrated in his chest and head. But he was warm and closely wrapped in heavy blankets. He was not hungry. The room was not cold. He felt no need to use the chamber pot and was strong enough to do so if that changed. The hand that brushed aside his hair was gentle.

"Jylan? Are you awake now?"

It was difficult to breathe deeply. He could feel a rattle in his chest when he inhaled and a sore, swollen pain in his lungs when the air tried to escape again. His eyes were heavy from sleep, his mouth lined with a thin, watery film that tasted cold: snowdrop oil. Expensive. He opened his eyes.

"Good." He saw Mistress Valora and then felt the weight pull his eyes shut again. He blinked several times, awake but finding it increasingly difficult to present himself as such. The midwife was sitting on his bed. It was her hand that brushed aside his bangs, and then her thin fingers slid down and took his cheek in a firm and unnecessary grasp. She shook his face. "Now what did I tell you, hmm? What did I say would happen? Out in a storm without a cloak or proper boots on: you're lucky not to have died."

She released his face before he could speak. She brushed her hand down his cheek again, soothing where she had grasped him. She fussed with the blankets over him and folded them down his chest, then scooped her hands under his shoulders.

"Come, sit up. You need something to wash your mouth out and to eat." He was strong enough to sit under his own power, bending his arms back and pushing his hands into the bed. When he leaned forward there was a catch in his lungs that made him cough, and the first cough brought a cascade of them that made his chest hurt, his ribs tighten, his face grow hot and mouth fill with thick slime.

She rubbed his back until the coughing passed, standing now and hovering attentively. She took the pillow he had been laying on and urged him to hold it; something to brace on and support himself with.

His mouth was rinsed with a strong wash of mint and vinegar, which he spat out before taking a mouthful of water for the same purpose. She gave him a strong tea of elfroot and lemon that did not pair well with the wash but would ease his fever and his cough.

"Are you nauseous at all?" Valora asked him once he finished the tea.

"No-" and then he coughed again, and coughed many more times before his aching body could breathe again. "I am- in pain."

"Then I want you eating solid, proper foods again." She told him simply, "I can't tell what's possessed Mistress Stockard to leave these here but she's adamant you're to eat the entire stack. I hope you like sweets, boy." Still leaning over his own legs and embracing the flattened body of his pillow, he was uncertain of her meaning. A plate was handed to him with three tiny boiled and peeled eggs, possibly from a quail, and a flat yellow cake soaked and drizzled with honey.

The syrup would sooth his throat from so much coughing. The eggs would help his inner fire catch and allow him the strength to fight off his fever. When presented with a choice between plain bread or sweetened, he was aware of his preference for the latter. He took the eggs first, two bites each, and ate the cake with his fingers. It was dense and rich and very sweet. He was given more tea to help him swallow.

"Now to deal with this dreadful mess…" The midwife sighed beyond his line of sight, and he was aware of her going over items set atop his chest of drawers. He stopped moving when he felt her touch his head. He did not understand her purpose, but then she lifted his braid and he felt threads of tension prick his scalp, and was aware of a matted heaviness. "Are you well enough to brush out your own hair or should I just do it for you, boy? A-ah!" He felt the hard back of his own comb block his hand from touching his hair. "Nevermind. I can see the honey from here and the last thing you need is syrup in this tangle. You've been in bed two days and were soaking wet for the first one."

He was uncertain of what to say in response to this, so opted for no reply at all.

Mistress Valora took a seat on the bed behind him and he sat up as far as he was able to ease her task. He remained aware of her and focused on the movement tracking across his scalp as she untied the end of the tangled braid and worked the comb's teeth through the bottom of it. For much of the work he was unable to feel her motion or the change wrought by the comb, but when her hands reached the back of his head and close to his scalp that changed considerably.

He finished eating, but with slower bites. He did not want to cough again with her hands in hi- he coughed many, many times…

"Maker, how do you even get it all in the braid in the first place? It's all curls!" She led with her fingertips, feeling through his hair and then slipping the teeth of the comb through the locks. "My hair was never this thick, boy, some of it's even still damp- no wonder it always looks like you've no handle on it all. And it doesn't even have the decency to all curl the same way…" The dull teeth rubbed against his scalp in a pleasing way, bringing a soft and cool sensation that was comfortable in contrast with her warm fingers. His ears were spared any assault from the comb by a simple, gentle touch of her fingertip to the top of one, allowing it to curl down and let the comb take from his temple and trail back through the rest.

"Vessa's father used to have hair like yours, only straight as a plain of wood. I could have woven a rope from his head when he was a boy." His shoulders and back were cold from being without the blankets, but inside he was warm from tea and good food. His legs and feet were warm. With no alternative he sucked the honey off his fingers. "A shame you don't know where your parents were from. Most Fereldan elves have straight hair, thin like Warden Velanna's and mine. A shame yours isn't a bit coarser as well, but at least your hood keeps people from touching it, hmm?" Mistress Valora spoke pleasantly and in a gentle voice, her words intended to fill the silence of his illness and her busywork. The comb brushed down the crown of his head and was pleasant. The gesture was repeated several times, each pass as pleasing as the last, and then directed across the other side of his head.

His eyes were very heavy and the comb continued its firm, easy strokes. Her old hands were warm and gentle, fingertips rubbing kindly at his scalp when there was a snag or tangle the comb aggravated. He was unaware of his own lapse until he felt his balance pull and he caught his head in a lull. A moment later he did it again. He was too tired to correct his posture, and it would have been ungrateful of him to move too much while she continued her... he caught himself a third time. She laughed softly and touched his shoulder, giving the comb one final pass before rubbing his back.

"Good. Off to sleep with you, boy, I'll not have the Arl accuse me of taking poor care of you."

It was his intention to say something. To assure her that he was adequately cared for. To thank her for combing his hair. To pass his thanks to Delilah Stockard for the honey cake. This was his intention.

Instead, he took another mouthful of warm tea and the cup was supported by Valora's hand instead of his own. He fell onto his side, still holding his pillow to his chest, and he was covered in blankets again without the ability to speak or open his eyes. His sore head was stroked by her hand, his thick lungs pulled in shallow breaths. But he was warm and he was fed and he was soothed and he slept. He slept very, very deeply…

"But _why?_ "

It seemed likely that time passed before he heard voices near to him again.

"I don't know; it was so sudden I didn't have a chance to ask what was happening."

"Have you spoken to her?" Mistress Valora's hushed voice.

"She was still in tears about it this afternoon." Warden Velanna's whispers. "The Commander hasn't returned yet from Amaranthine either."

"This late in the day he isn't likely to make it back at all. Tomorrow then, if you think it wise to approach him."

"I was hoping to speak to Jylan first, but if he's still so ill…"

"He is certainly better for resting and the magic you and the Arl have spun over him, but I would ask you not to burden him with this matter just yet." They thought him asleep but this was no longer the case. However, he was very fatigued still, and Mistress Valora expressed concern over his constitution. It would be disagreeable to cause her further distress over his condition. He remained quiet and still, eyes closed. "Have faith, Velanna: the Warden Commander is strict but fair. If it means protecting Jylan from something then Warden Athras will have to accept this new arrangement. Come to see him again in the morning, I was about to return to my own home when you arrived."

The door opened and the women left after that. Jylan was alone in his room again. He opened his eyes. He was tired. His head hurt. His lungs hurt. His shoulders and back and sides all felt heavy. He sat up. He coughed, and then coughed several more painful times.

There was no pair of socks resting ready on the floor by his bed. His shoes were missing as well. He covered his mouth with the crook of his elbow and coughed many, many times into his sleeve, dizzy and aching when it was done. He stood. He was uncomfortable and cold.

The brazier was filled with glowing warm coals, enough to keep the room very warm: this meant his fever had not broken if he remained so cold.

His keys and ring and Amara's amulet were on the chest of drawers next to the comb Valora had used on his hair. The amulet was undamaged from his experience in the rain. The white quartz formari ring had not been lost. The keys were accounted for.

He placed the items into their box which had been left closed but empty atop the chest. His blue and white robes were not in the room, presumably because they had been sent to the laundry. He owned a spare set of blue and white but selected a hanging robe of black wool, changing his shirt and trousers before putting the robe on. He found his shoes next to the brazier: they were no longer damp but had grown stiff from the heat. With a fresh pair of socks he pulled the shoes on as well.

The tea had grown lukewarm in the hours set out. He swallowed the rest of it, and tended to himself, leaving his hair unbound. He was uncomfortable and aware of how necessary his return to bed would be. He coughed many, many times into his sleeve before finding the crumpled ball of a warden handkerchief he did not recall owning, using that instead to cover his face when the coughing seized him.

He took his keys and left the room. The hall was so cold he promptly returned to the room and found his gloves and a scarf of warm, well-knit brown wool. He left a second time, dizzy, chest aching, and navigated the torch-lit corridors to find the workshop. He unlocked the door but the workshop was not as he had left it.

A mess had been left of the table of free supplies. It would take a few minutes to put in order again, but not right now. The cauldron of water had boiled mostly away leaving only a trace of water at the very bottom, so presumably no one had tended the blaze or damaged the great iron pot. Several bundles of common herbs had been opened and left out on the counters, but they were primarily embrium, parsley, and elfroot. The floor had not been swept, the ink well next to the ledger was still open. He capped the bottle and turned the ledger around to read it, a difficult task with so little light.

There were twelve new requisitions on top of the five he had been unable to address the day he fell ill, and the four outstanding orders that had been part-way completed. There was a backlog now of twenty-one requisitions for him to work through, but he was too dizzy and fatigued to stand here now and begin with them. If he persisted tonight then he would delay his recovery and injure himself.

He left the ledger open, locked the workshop door, and returned to his room. He removed his belt and shoes and robe and placed his keys back in the box with Amara's amulet and his ring. He left his shoes under his bed and did not remove his socks. He crawled into bed and waited to stop hurting.

He awoke again before dawn and he tried again. He was not certain of his ability to rise if he lowered himself to the floor for exercise, and thus did not perform the twenty-one push-ups or thirty sit-ups. He was too cold and sore to change his clothes again. He put on his shoes, his white robe, his blue robe, his ring, Amara's amulet, his belt and his keys. He was required to sit again in order to comb his hair, but his fingers were clumsy and his arms were weak: he could not control his hair well enough to braid it. He stopped.

His head ached. He felt chilled and sore. He coughed many, many times before leaving the room. He wore his scarf and his gloves indoors because he was cold.

He went to the workshop and his hands struggled to light a fire of kindling and small lengths of dry wood. It took him far longer than normal to complete the simple task. The weight of the empty cauldron caused him to drop it with a great bang on the stone floor. He persisted, but his arms and back hurt. He pumped the water but paused and leaned on the handle, his face and head swimming with nausea.

He persisted. The full cauldron was far too heavy for him to lift. He poured the water out until he could heft it from the sink. He carried it to the hearth where he staggered and spilled what water remained over the small fire, soaking and crushing it with the cauldron. The ash made him cough once, and then he knelt there and coughed many, many times.

He persisted. He lifted the cauldron to its hook. He took a rag and wiped away the ash and debris from its wet belly. He dug through the ashes to disperse the water and bury it, fetching more wood and kindling. He knelt on sore legs and struck a second fire. He used a smaller pot and made several trips to pour water into the cauldron. It took him far longer than was acceptable before the cauldron was full. He was very dizzy and very hungry when he left the workshop to break his fast.

"Master Ansera?" He took the hot bread. Just the bread. He did not break it open for butter or a spoonful of jam. He took the hot bread and held it in his hands. He was very cold and the bread was pleasant between his palms. "You should sit down today, perhaps? I'll pour you some tea." He did not know the servant who spoke to him. He had not intended to linger in the servant's mess hall. He remained only because he was dizzy and momentarily confused as to the location of the door that would take him back to the familiar paths of the lower keep.

"You still have the look of a man with a bad fever, elf." Someone else he did not know spoke to him when he sat down at the very end of one of the benches along the tables where the servants… "Ansera? Have your breakfast and go back to bed."

His sore teeth ate the chewy bread. The hot tea was black and fragrant but he drank it straight and fast. The heat was good for him. The burn in his throat was unpleasant but would fade. He left the empty cup on the table and returned to the workshop.

He had nothing to deliver as he had done no work for two days. He organized the stacks of prepared items, uncertain as to his own labels and their accuracy, as the bars of lard and the bars of soap were the same weight and dimension. He was dizzy. He was cold. The morning bell echoed strongly enough to make him stagger and lean on the worktable.

He cleaned yesterday's mess. He consulted the ledger and turned away to begin… he consulted the ledger again. Dye. He fetched the… he consulted the ledger again. Green amaranth dye. No. Amaranth did not create green. Amaranth made a variety of colours in shades of red and purple, not green. This was incorrect. The Seamstress' instructions were incorrect. He looked to the next requisition: soap. A pound of white soap for the laundry.

The ceramic jug of lye was heavy and it would be incredibly unwise for him to drop or allow it to break. The lard was similarly heavy. He brought both reagents to the table before turning to the boiling water in the cauldron, ladling some out into a cup, and placing a fresh elfroot leaf in his mouth to chew on. When the water was no longer at risk of scalding him outright, he drank it. His arms and legs felt weak. He was aware that he was unlikely to perform many more tasks today.

"You stubborn fool of an elf!" A sharp, scolding voice shouted from the doorway. He looked and saw Mistress Valora's pinched face, flushed cheeks, and the angry twist and bustle of her arms bundled up under her black shawl. "I _just_ told Warden Arthas that you were safely abed and now look at you! Douse that fire at once! Coughing all over your work and tempting death to come for you! Back to bed this _instant!"_

"I-"

"To _bed!"_

The volume and force of her voice was unnecessary to direct him back to his room. Valora did not even allow for him to remove his belt, keys, or ring before he was placed back in bed with his shoes carelessly tossed to the floor. She covered him, robe and all, in blankets and scolded him for several more minutes until she was calm enough to permit him to rise again and remove his scarf, gloves, keys, and robe. He returned to bed again and did not argue or resist her at any point. Her intentions, although difficult to prioritize against the necessary operation of the workshop, were to see his health fully recovered before he resumed work.

" _You_ are not working for your Guild, or your Circle, or anything else today." She sat on his bed, took his hands very firmly, and leaned on him with her words. "The Seneschal has ordered you to _rest_ , and you will be fully yourself again before going back to work. Your fever has not broken, Jylan! You must stay in bed and keep warm until that happens, and then you must rest a bit longer to make sure you are strong enough not to fall ill again! If you feel better then read a book, or do some of your sewing, but leave the labour until you are strong enough for it."

There was Rowan's book of magical theory in the bottom drawer of the cabinet. He requested it between sore coughs, and Valora found it easily before handing it to him. Then she departed to brew another pot of tea for him.

He fell asleep only a page into the current chapter.

And woke up when warmth surged down and consumed him from throat to groin, wrapping around his knees and slipping between his toes. Heat poured through his hands and up his arms, sinking into his sore back and tense shoulders. His neck was soothed, his chest eased and able to open up properly. But his head- that was why he woke up. The warmth became sharp and scrawling, it cut and burrowed, digging, biting, sinking harsh and painful into his forehead. It burned, and _burned_ and over the blankets his fingers curled and twisted, tension down his thigh made his knee bend and his back twist.

It stopped. The pain left, the magic faded, he was awake.

"So that… helped him?" Unfamiliar voice, male.

The splutter and hiss of more magic weaving together, threads of will and focus that circled his throat and then touched down. They followed the coursing motions of arms and hands and doused through his chest, his lungs, his gut, his back…

"It's cleansing magic," another low voice, a male speaker, but this one was known: the Warden Commander. "Spellwork cannot stop a fever, but it can control the cause of it. The inflammation of the lungs makes it challenging for him to breathe, thus the cough, and it causes a reaction in his body akin to panic: fever, fatigue, weakness, and delirium." The motions concentrated and came to rest. He could barely see but for the coils of blue light wafting from the air down past him. He was aware of hands hovering above him, holding the spell steady. He did not move.

The Spirit Healer's hands pushed the light down into his chest and it did not feel good. It was not pleasant. It was not agreeable. It was tens of tiny fingers squirming through his insides, picking at his lungs, wresting with his ribs, plucking at his skin from the inside. It needed to stop. The light was pushed in and down and it was not good not even when the light was so far down he could see the Warden Commander's face clearly now. His eyes were watching Jylan's face and aware of him and it was not good and it needed to stop. Stop.

He meant to speak but took a sudden breath instead. It was deep. It was unintended. It forced his head down and mouth open for the long draw of air and it came out in a collapsing gasp. The magic stopped and he coughed. He coughed many, many times.

"Good." Surana's hands lifted away from him and slipped behind his own back. Jylan was not certain if the Archmage had physically touched him or not- his lungs ached from the coughing. "He's doing much better, Mistress Valora. Thank you for accepting this responsibility on top of your usual obligations to the Vigil, it is much appreciated."

"It… is the least I could do, your Grace." Jylan closed his eyes and focused on breathing. He would not draw attention to himself with excessive cough- he coughed, and- it hurt... "He is certainly stronger today than yesterday, yours and Warden Velanna's magic has helped considerably."

"Do not discount your own efforts in these matters," the Commander cautioned her. "But I have taken up enough of your time. As he is both awake and doing well, there is someone here to speak with Compounder Ansera semi-privately."

"I noticed- who _is_ this?" Valora's question.

" _Semi-_ privately?" The unknown voice. He opened his eyes again. Surana was looking at the hidden speaker.

"I just completed a round trip to and from Amaranthine to ensure this Tranquil's safety here at the Vigil. So yes, semi-privately or not at all. Make your choice swiftly."

"I… alright, yes. Your way is fine, your Grace."

"Excellent. Mistress Valora?" The Commander looked to her and extended his arm. She was not visible to him until she accepted the gesture. Jylan only saw her cast a brief look back at him before she was gone. The door remained open. He was alone with a new person.

Jylan moved onto his side, pushing against the bed with his arms to rise, and moved with care to lean his back against the headboard. His head was heavy, but his raw chest did not hurt as much as it had that morning. He looked at the stranger and did not know him.

He was elven with black hair and dark skin. His eyes were creased underneath, a silver hoop hanging from one long ear. He had delicate scars across his lips and cheeks, and his clothing was too thin for Ferelden: hardened leather girdle decorated with tassels and knots, simple cotton and linen down his arms and legs, shoes instead of boots. He stood with the disposition of one who worked outside. It was reasonable to assume that he had come to Ferelden via a ship from warmer northern waters. That would make him a sailor.

The sailor's face expressed discomfort. Jylan was uncertain of his own role in relieving that stress.

"The Arl implied that you have business with me?" His voice did not come cleanly from his throat, he had coughed too much and worn it raw. "Do you carry a message, perhaps?"

"After a sort, I guess." Fereldan accent, a traveller then who had journeyed north and now returned. They were far in-land for a sailor. "You don't recognize me at all, huh?"

"No." He did not know this elf's face. "I am aware of only one sailor who would have reason to approach me." Too many words. He felt short of breath. "But you are too old to be him." The sailor seemed interested by his comment, his face was very expressive: even the tips of his ears rose somewhat at the comment. Jylan repeated himself with: "Are you a messenger?"

"Less a message, more news and catching up. What sailor do I remind you of? You know his name?" Yes, Jylan knew his name.

"Damen." An elven boy born after Jylan: his only younger brother. The name sparked something that saddened the other elf immensely.

"Aye," he said in a heavy voice, eyes creased and face tight with old pain. "Damen's ship went down seven years ago off the coast of Antiva: raiders took ever life, every coin, and scuttled the vessel before bragging about it up and down the Amaranthine coast." This was not good news.

Five years had separated Jylan from Damen. His memory did not reach back that far. He knew the name. He remembered soft limbs and a round tummy: difficult to drag and carry. He had known the name.

"That is-" he coughed. He raised his arm to cover it and then coughed many, many painful times into his sleeve. His eyes leaked tears and his skin felt hot, but when he could breathe again he spoke: "-unfortunate news. Such a tale would do well finding his family in the Gwaren Alienage."

"Maker's Breath, wall rat, is that all you've got to say about it?" The address gave him pause. He looked at the elf again: this sailor knew Damen, or had known of him. This sailor had known which ship his brother had been on, and remembered his fate seven years after the fact. This sailor called him a strange name, but one that echoed.

Rat was a common insult against elves. _Rattus_ was the Tevene slur used towards them. A wall rat implied climbing and scouring up something, scurrying about in places as a pest.

"You are from the Gwaren Alienage." A place of many crumbling walls and piles of old masonry. A place where children had climbed and dashed and tripped and fallen- and dragged their younger siblings about only to be dragged in turn by their elder ones. He remembered, vaguely, the sensation of grit digging under his nails and between his bare toes.

"You're damned right I am," the sailor from Gwaren told him. "And so were you once, a long time ago I'll grant you but _come on!_ If you didn't know about Damen's ship then why aren't you upset about it?" Oh. The stranger expected the news to evoke an emotional reaction in him, and perceived Jylan's response as inappropriate.

"My skill with conversation is not widely regarded as competent." His head was beginning to hurt again, his chest heavy. He adjusted how he was sitting on the bed in order to recline a bit further back, hands in his lap, face still turned towards the other elf. "I am not certain that you have found the correct person for your query, but I have also neglected to give my name and station within Vigil's Keep." Too many words. "I am Compounder Jylan Ansera of the Formari Guildsmen of Amaranthine, acting Apothecary of Vigil's Keep."

"No you're not." The sailor became offended, he scowled, he made fists. His statement was divorced from reason.

"Yes, I am." So Jylan corrected him. "I have been contracted to the Vigil from my guild for the previous calendar year. My duties and responsibilities have been clearly outlined."

"I don't give a damn about your job, I meant your name! That's not your name!"

"If you seek to intimidate me by raising your voice, then I must inform you that it will not work." The situation was escalating. Jylan should have inquired into the Warden Commander's meaning and expectations behind the phrase _semi-private_. "As I am unable to experience shock or loss over the death of my brother Damen, so I am unable to experience anxiety or fear over your temper and strange insistence over my name, stranger."

"What the fuck _happened_ to you!?"

The yelling made his headache flare. He closed is eyes briefly for the pain to abate, and made a decision.

"My present goal and intention is to regain my health so that I may resume my necessary work within the Vigil." He stated, and then went on to explain: "That I return to work promptly after several days abed is crucial to my continued employment and the dispensation of salary which is then forwarded to my surviving siblings in Gwaren." And then he finished with: "Stranger, I do not know you, I do not recognize you although it is clear that you hold some unspoken memory of me from Gwaren. It is unfortunate that this meeting has inspired such a negative emotional response from you but it appears beyond my tranquil capacity to calm you. If your only intention from this point on is to shout at me, then I must request you leave so that I may rest and resume my duties as soon as possible."

Jylan heard the drop and click of armour, looked past the sailor standing in his room, and witnessed the Warden Commander's quiet return to the doorway. The Archmage was dressed for riding and fighting, although he carried no staff. His gold robe was cut around the breastplate and faulds of his armour, and he rested one gauntlet-clad wrist over the pommel of his sword. The sailor looked at him as well, but the hurt was growing across his face and Jylan observed its effects. His temper was not dangerous: it was a response to emotional pain.

"Control yourself, or I remove you." Arl Surana leaned on the doorway and kicked one foot to the side, a relaxed pose not easy to attack from. "As I thought I explained to you on the road from Amaranthine city: he is a Tranquil. He's not going to make assumptions no matter how many breadcrumbs you throw at him, so be explicit or stop wasting your time." There had been an expectation that Jylan would piece together parts of what was said and form his own conclusion. This had not been clearly conveyed.

The distressed man nodded to the Commander and then looked at Jylan again, pausing before he took hold of the chair Mistress Valora had sat in numerous times since he had fallen ill. The chair was placed close to the bed again and the elf sat in it, dropping his elbows to his knees and rubbing his face with both hands. He was not calmer, but he was more in control of himself as he took a deep breath and tried again.

"You name is not _Ansera_ it's _Ashera_ ," the elf explained in a heavy, winded voice. "And it's _always_ been our family name. It's never changed, every last one of us has been an Ashera since our parents set foot in Ferelden. I'm not going to let you change it now, so get it right: your name is _Ashera_. And you know me. Don't lie to us both and say you don't because _you do_. Even if you've forgotten my name, even if you've forgotten _your own_ , you know me. Now tell me what you know."

This sailor was too old to be Jylan's next eldest brother. He was too young to be another relative. He stated either that their parents were the same people or had arrived in Ferelden at a similar time.

"There has been a mistake." Jylan reasoned through what he knew of his family and arrived at this conclusion: "I was informed last spring that my eldest brother Samar had died young. You are too old to be Rian. You are too old to be Damen whom you also inform me has been dead for many years. If Damen and Samar are dead than I have only one brother living in Gwaren along with three sisters." The sailor was upset, his green eyes were rimmed with red and his voice became husky when he shook his head and looked down at his hands hanging between his knees.

"Aye, there has been a mistake." His voice did not carry strongly. "I never died, and I never said I did either- don't know where you got that from, really. Damen died young, not me."

"Samar." He remembered the name. He remembered climbing broken alienage walls. He could not remember why. His brother nodded to him and his eyes began to weep. His voice was broken when he spoke.

"We survived the Blight, all of us but our father." He uttered the words in a thick and choking voice. "Name us."

"Samar, the eldest." Jylan stated, drawing from memories left untouched for many years. He had created a mnemonic for himself during his time in the Circle, as an Apprentice. It was difficult to remember. It was there, but it was buried. "Ariyah, sister. Younger than you but older than Rian who was born before me. Then a sister, Dana- Dinah." He corrected himself. "Saya, then Damen, and then the baby." Warden Velanna had told him his youngest sibling was a sister. It had to be the baby. "It was a sister."

"Jenna," Samar closed his weeping eyes with slow, tired nods. "The baby was named Jenna after the Templars took you away."

The Warden Commander withdrew from the room again. Jylan reasoned that he would not go far.

"The Wardens who returned from Gwaren informed me that our mother died a few years ago."

"After Damen died, yes." Samar explained it to him. His eldest brother, Samar, who was sitting next to him and weeping. He reached out for and took Jylan's wrist in one warm hand, his other one covering his eyes as he sat there and told his story. "She couldn't… Father died right at the end of the Blight and the Templars dragged you away when his blood was still warm on the rubble. She was never herself again, and the news from the fleet when Damen died- she just _couldn't._ She stopped eating, wouldn't leave the house. Rian sent Jenna off as a servant just to spare her from having to watch as mother just… _stopped_. I was on a ship bound for Val Royeaux when we knew it was almost over. By the time I came back she was gone."

He was not certain what verbal response he was meant to give to this announcement. What few answers he considered were deemed inappropriate. He was aware of the extended silence but made the mistake of keeping his focus directed on his brother. When Samar looked at him it was with the tight, old pain of grief, but quickly folded itself into a look of subtle, and then open, confusion.

"Does… does this not mean anything to you?"

"I am aware of the value of what you have told me."

"But- that's it? _Value?"_ He would soon become angry again, and his anger would signal to the Warden Commander that Samar was to be removed from either the room or the Vigil. As his brother was a sailor his presence in the Vigil must have been intentionally driven to see Jylan, to be forced out after such a long trip would be unsatisfactory.

"How did you come to know of me again?" So he asked a question intending to change his brother's focus and perhaps receive more information.

"Rian knew where my ship was headed," Samar's answer was given through clenched teeth, hurt and anger bleeding through his green eyes. "He sent a message ahead to me, but it was short. Just your name and to look in Amaranthine for you, that you were tranquil now. Is _that_ what this is? This- _this nothing?_ "

"Yes." It was good that he made that connection on his own, however it was likely to require further explanation. "I was made tranquil in Nine Thirty-Six Dragon when I became ensnared in the internal politics of the Fereldan Circle of Magi. The brand upon my forehead severed my connection to the Fade, the realm of dreams. Without that connection I lost the ability to dream, to experience my emotions, and the use of my magic." He watched Samar's eyes search the air between them for answers to questions which sprung up in his mind. When he spoke it was with a soft echo of horror.

"Wha… Why would they do that to you? I thought it was for blood mages?" Because Samar was his brother who would likely carry the reason back to their siblings, and because he likely had no prior experiences with the Circles of Magi beyond Jylan himself, it was appropriate that he know the truth. Samar was unlikely to become as invested as Connor, who had once also asked him this question.

"I was no blood mage. I offended the First Enchanter's Apprentice." He answered the matter with a statement of truth instead of a matter of fact. What the Circle's official reasoning had been did not factor into this moment as fully as the actual reason behind the decision. It had not been until weeks after the Rite itself that Jylan had understood the matter completely. These elaborations were not required at present. "Her rebuttal crossed several lines of propriety within the Circle, and I was made tranquil as an example to her. However, as she later died during her Harrowing it has remained unclear to me what precise lesson my punishment was intended to teach her."

"But then…" The horror did not abate from Samar's eyes. It occurred to him now, at a regrettably late period of the discussion, that Samar's perceived emotional investment in Jylan _himself_ would result in a negative emotional reaction. Knowing Amara the way Connor had was not, apparently, a requirement for distress. Samar's tears were now spilling with alarming regularity. "If you weren't a mage any longer then why didn't they send you home? The war didn't start until thirty-eight!"

"I was transferred from being a ward of the Chantry to a possession of it, as all tranquil mages were treated prior to the dissolution of the Circles."

" _Possession?_ " Yes. "And _after_ that?"

"I was gravely wounded during the Annulment of the Fereldan Circle. Upon completing a partial recovery, I fled to Amaranthine with the Formari Quartermaster to petition the Hero of Ferelden for sanctuary. The request was granted, and I have remained in the Arling since that time." Barring his accompaniment of the Grey Wardens to Redcliffe last winter, but Jylan witnessed no current reason to assume providing additional information at this point would sooth his brother at all. On the contrary, his answers were only instigating more distress. "I have alarmed and upset you, Samar. This was not my intention."

"Why didn't you come _home?_ " His brother was weeping openly now, his hands swiping at his face to remove the tears. "Why stay in Amaranthine when you could have come back to _Gwaren?_ "

"I had not experienced contact with our family in many years. I did not even know if they remained in the city. There were also other contributing reasons."

"Like what?" Jylan did not answer him. They were primarily reasons concerning the safety of a tranquil mage travelling alone, of an elf travelling alone, of securing employment beyond the reach of his guild or his special contract with the Grey Wardens. Most certainly, there was the reason of simply not experiencing the motivation necessary to uproot himself and travel across the entire country to a city where he had known no one and had held no reasonable expectation of safety or value. "Like _what_ I said! Answer me, why didn't you come _home!?_ " He closed his eyes again and lifted his hand.

"I requested that you not shout at me."

Samar stood, it was a poor choice on his part.

"I'll shout and scream at you if that's what it takes to get a damn answer from you! Why didn't you _come home!?_ "

" _Master_ Ashera," Commander Surana's voice swung through the room like a heavy mallet, blowing down Samar's temper again. "That is quite enough for today. If you're to be aboard your ship tomorrow morning when it plans to leave Amaranthine, then you'll no doubt wish to rest and feed yourself here before the ride back to the city. The compounder also needs his rest, and my midwife does not appreciate your… overbearing manner towards her patient."

Surana entered the room as smoothly now as he had before, stepping around Samar and redirecting his hurt away from Jylan. The Commander inserted himself between the bed and the sailor. He looked down briefly with a dismissive nod and the blunt command for Jylan to lay down. As he had no available alternatives, Jylan readjusted across the bed and laid down.

Samar was controlling himself, but his wet eyes were still leaking distress, and he watched Jylan move before shaking his head at the Arl.

"I still want an answer from him," his brother spoke in a harsh, thick voice. Surana was watching him openly and also rubbing his palms together in a deliberate fashion. "Why didn't he reach out? He said he's sending money but what about letters? What about _anything_ to let us know he was still alive before now?"

"The answer is that he is a _Tranquil_ , Master Ashera." Red light collected between his palms, and the hiss of magic began to sting the air. Samar saw the spell forming and quickly took two long steps back from the Archmage between them. "My Seneschal can explain the financial end of things to you later today, but on the emotional front: your brother is a failed mage. He no longer truly has the capacity to-"

Surana cast his spell to the side, almost behind him, and it flared out and grasped Jylan very suddenly.

The Archmage continued to speak. The brand began to sear and crackle between his eyes. It hurt. It cut. It blistered. His fingers knotted with the sheets, he tried to breathe and felt the magic force itself into his mouth, between his teeth, down like a thick glove into his throat. His nostrils were struck full and his ears rung before deafness swallowed him, his eyes blinded, his…

" _The only reason your family knows he is here is because my Wardens took it upon themselves to tell them. Your family's business is your own, Master Ashera, but my business is upholding my vows to the Tranquil under my protection. Waste as much of your time as you like with him, I'll not stop you, but you will_ _ **never**_ _threaten him in that tone of voice again. I hope that today has been an enlig…"_

The spell strangled him and all that was left was sleep.


	11. A Healer's Chargin

**City of Angels, Say Something, The Dalish Encampment**

* * *

 ** _Echoes of Arlathan_**

A Healer's Chargin

The elder master Ashera was sent off with a servant to Garevel's office, and it was Soren's intention to return to his chambers and refresh himself after his day and night in Amaranthine. He hadn't meant to be gone over-night, but working with Tranquil almost always took longer than expected. At least it was done now.

"Warden Commander?" And now on to something new: a hold on his attention for the Vigil's midwife. "Please pardon my intrusion on your time, your grace…"

"It's no intrusion coming from you, Mistress Valora." It needed to be understood that while Soren had very little cause to speak to the elderly elven woman beyond medical emergencies within the Keep, he still respected both her and her craft. A castle was only as fit as its families, and without a skilled midwife there would have been far fewer of them about the fortress.

Healthy families meant happy, dedicated soldiers; good, diligent tradesmen; and plenty of running and playing children. Soren had seen enough ruins, war-camps, and outposts to know he was quite alright having unexpected messes and misbegotten pranks underfoot if it meant hearing laughter in the hallways or rhyming melodies in the gardens around the Vigil. It reminded him fondly of the transitions and free hours enjoyed by Apprentices back at the Circle. You could eat and sleep anywhere, but you were only at home when there were children.

"Is there some matter you would like my assistance with?" With her role both so necessary and productive, Soren was pleased by how easy he found it to respect Valora. Direct, hard-spoken, and downright belligerent against fools, her wonderful skill with her craft made her easily as dependable as Garevel. If she desired his time or attention with something, then it was hers.

"It's about Ansera, your grace." Oh. Well, he would not renege on a pledge he had just mentally made to himself. He nodded to give her permission to continue, and the midwife wrung her hands together as she spoke. "Or, I suppose his name is _Ashera_ now- but enough. What I wanted to ask you was this, your grace: that spell you use to put our patients to sleep, is it painful?"

"I shouldn't think so," he told her and felt curious about his own reaction to the question. This almost hurt. "You've seen me use it many times in the past and never raised any concerns." Soren had cast it over the ill, the injured, the suffering or dying. Magic did not result in the same deep slumber as embrium or snowdrops, but it was faster and required only skill and focus, not costly or unavailable reagents.

"Do you now believe otherwise?" he prompted her when it didn't seem she knew what to say.

"I believe, your grace, that I've never seen a person struggle against it." A sensible and direct answer, he liked it even if the topic- "Not greatly, mind you, but watching Jylan twist his hands like that and go tense- I don't know why he would struggle unless he was in pain. But your grace is always repeating for everyone how _'he's tranquil, he's a Tranquil_ ', so what if it's that? Does touching magic hurt the Tranquil?"

Soren was ready to answer but then stopped. He repeated the question to himself in a serious manner and realized he didn't know. He had honestly never thought about it, or had any reason to ponder the matter either. His interested had never been focused on failed mages.

So Soren did right by her and told the truth:

"I don't think so, but I don't know either." He was the authority on Magic at Vigil's Keep and without Connor or Sephri in residence there wasn't another Circle Mage for miles to correct him. "Either you may ask him when he wakes up this afternoon, or I shall. His guildmaster would not approve of even well-intentioned harm befalling him and I pride myself on taking proper care of my charges. Thank you for bringing this to me." Even if she was wrong: Soren didn't know and he was going to find out. No one would ever accuse him of using his powers carelessly or in ignorance of their effects.

But first, he was going to rest. He bade good day to the midwife and she briskly excused herself from his presence. They were both busy people and they had plenty of better things to do than stand around in a corridor together talking of Tranquil.

Soren felt remarkably better for his jaunt to Amaranthine. It had been a long and late night, a cold and rugged attempt to sleep in a dockyard inn, and a wet, rainswept ride home in the morning. He was tired but _refreshed_ , and the only thing missing from it all was a good reason to flex his magic.

Things were only looking brighter again when he returned to his chambers and found what could only be either a piece offering or an apology sitting on the salon table. Six small, bright orange clementines.

These did not grow in Ferelden. And even if they did, they wouldn't ripen at this time of year unless you were far, far north of both Antiva and Rivain. _Someone_ had been through the Eluvian and brought him back a gift.

His helmet and gauntlets, removed down when he had entered the Vigil's front doors, had been brought to this chamber already and laid on the same table as the fruit. This meant Soren's hands were unburdened as he removed his sword belt and shield, and as soon as the weapons were off him he could scoop up the first delicacy. It was supple and heavy in his hand, and the rind peeled off in one large piece that would be dried and saved for teas or soaps.

"Did the Arishok catch you in his orchard?" Soren asked the room, noting the burning fire, the leaning heartwood staff by the couch, and his wife's foot sticking out over the arm of the same sofa. He pulled off a segment of the fragrant fruit and relished the flood of nectar over his tongue when he chewed it.

" _Mng…_ " Oh, she was actually asleep? Well his taunt woke her up, and he held half the fruit in his mouth so he could unlace the strong hide vambraces around his wrists. He could remove the rest of the armour in his room in a moment, but it was nice to have full movement in his wrists and hands back as he left the guards on the table.

"Itching feet after only two nights home?" He asked her, coming around behind the sofa to peer down at her.

" _You_ did not return last night as promised…" she grumbled in a low, miserable voice. Her eyes were barely open, and she didn't look like she'd cleaned up since coming home? Leather tights and several twisted black and wine-red scarves knotted around her waist in a mess of skirts. A feathery black pauldron up her shoulder, her amulets of protection and warding resting on her chest. "Boredom swiftly followed. Mind you, I poisoned half those treats I see you're already gorging yourself on. Take care not to die."

"I always do." He peeled a second segment off and popped it in his mouth, leaning over the sofa and waiting for her to sit up. But she didn't. "Morrigan?" He mumbled around the fruit. He reached down a hand for her to take, but she didn't. "Did you go alone, Morrigan?"

"No." Flat, tired voice. She hadn't really opened her eyes properly to look at him yet. If he leaned any further over the damned furniture his feet would lose the floor and Soren wouldn't stand for kicking his legs in the air like a child trying to reach her. He pulled away, circled back to the table to leave the half-eaten clementine next to its sisters, and swung his left arm out enough to reach the clasp and buckle holding his griffon pauldron to his shoulder. He pulled and shimmied it down, taking the cuff at his elbow at the same time. He dropped the two pieces on a chair and returned to her.

"Where's Zevran?" He asked her and took a knee next to the sofa. Her answer came in the same tired mumble:

"His room, I think?"

"You _think?_ " He slipped his palms together and spread them, painting an image between his hands that stretched and incorporated itself into its own elaborate design as it twisted. "Morrigan, look at me."

"If I should admit that the room is spinning far too much for that, will you be very annoying about it?"

"Yes."

"Then I shall not look at you because I do not care to. The spinning has nothing to do with it." He was going to be very annoying now:

"I am not the only healer in this castle," he scolded, settling the web of starlit magic across her eyes and guiding it down. "Velanna could have done this for you." A dousing spell, just to tell him what in the Maker's name was wrong. His mind was able to move and understand what the magic touched, like sticking a hand in a black box and feeling a broken sword, a cracked shield, or split cauldron. Soren found the healed but tender welt across the back of her head, the thundering echo of a heavy strike across her skull, and the uneasy distress deeper inside. That last part worried him.

"You were supposed to be home," she pouted.

"You are supposed to know better," he scolded, letting his mind reach out, an echo sounding through his magic: a quiet call that earned him minor attention from across the veil. "Keep your eyes closed," was his only instruction.

He was a healer, he was her partner, she was in pain and it was his duty to help and safeguard her from these injuries. He felt Duty answer him with affirmation, and the spirit's presence was like the tension on a loom: it did not do the work of putting together Soren's glyphs and lines, Duty didn't supply any of the raw power for the work either, the spirit simply helped him. It gave him a frame to rely on, and it helped the magic come together with more precision and speed than if Soren had muddled through it alone.

The spell he wove on Duty's loom was small in size and delicate in purpose. A field medic and front-line healer would always treat what was choking, bleeding, or immediately killing the people around them. A Spirit Healer knew to work from _inside_ and move out. The spell formed a glowing mark on his palm. He spread his fingers and brushed them carefully down from the crown of her head, her brow, and across her closed eyes. The warmth moved from the eyes and soaked _in_ , provided _internal_ relief first, and while Morrigan did take a quick breath and hold it, she remained still and slowly began to relax once the immediate presence was established. It was only a concussion. But a concussion was the brain slamming against the inside of the skull, and considering how delicate that mess of tissue and odd structures was: having _only_ a concussion was not far off from having _only_ a severed finger.

Soren could not fix what he did not consciously recognize as wrong. Given the quiet hysteria around mind-control during his studies both within and beyond the Circles, examining the brain was not something he had been given many, if any, non-emergency chances to explore. It was invasive, uncomfortable, and he didn't like it. This was not a part of Morrigan he wanted to see. As soon as he'd let the spell ease restoring and soothing energy into her head for a few seconds he moved on to the fine fractures in her skull, repairing those with far less hesitation, and finally rubbed out the tender pains of mis-aligned flesh under her hair.

"There," he told her, withdrawing his touch and rubbing his palms again, watching as she let go of a slow, relieved sigh and brought a hand up to her head. She scratched and rubbed across her own scalp in relief, humming satisfied things to him under her breath.

"Much better… What-?" He touched her chest. Not her breasts, her chest.

"You brought this on yourself." The dousing magic moved down, moved through, and his hands settled at her waist, then walked to her hips.

"T'was only my head, Soren."

"I'll be the judge of that."

" _Child_." His magic didn't go all the way down, it didn't have to. He dispelled the glyph, folded his arms, and sat there on his haunches next to her couch.

"Okay, go ahead: roll your ankle." She did, and he snorted at her. "Not that one, the other one." The ankle sitting high and up on the arm of the sofa.

"Tis fine," she insisted.

" _Tis_ not," he mocked.

"Then fix it."

"Is it broken? Is it sprained? Is the good lady merely retaining an excess of humours?" Soren rambled off, and did not move from his crouch. "As perplexing a mystery as you've ever encountered, my dear." Morrigan grumbled loudly and then dropped her head back, staring at the ceiling petulantly.

"Yes, it hurts. Yes, it is swollen. Yes, you are a great strain upon my nerves." Soren stood with his victory and trailed his fingertips from her knee to ankle, no magic this time: just the chance to bother her. He cradled her calf with one hand and braced her foot against him, undoing the laces down the boot and sparing none of them. He could already tell it was swollen, the boot itself was too warm and tight for anything else. He was gentle about it but didn't coo and fuss over her, aware of her wince when he finally got it off.

Warm magic this time, good for the weather, the swelling, and the pain. No dousing magic, they both knew a minor sprain when they saw one: she'd probably rolled it in the excitement through the mirror.

"I was telling myself how the only thing missing from today was the chance to use productive magic, but this isn't what I had in mind." He rubbed the light into her ankle and up her leg a little. He was not going to stand here and give her a foot rub, but for the moment he was holding this foot and he was rubbing it.

"Mm, you should see Zevran then, if it's a challenge you want." Morrigan was purring on her back when Soren stopped what he was doing.

"Is he injured?"

"Do you ever know him to be this quiet when he _isn't?_ "

Soren dropped her stupid foot, walked away from her stupid couch, pushed through the stupid apartment doors, and went looking for his stupid brother. From the salon there were only three ways to go: into Soren's office, back out into the hall, or further inside to a short hallway hosting many more doors. One of these held the workshop with Morrigan's eluvian, another was their bedroom, another was Kieran's locked up room, the fourth was a private bathing chamber, and the last one was Zevran's.

As the door was already ajar, Soren just tapped a knuckle on it before walking right in and-

" _You found meee…!"_

"Are you _drunk?_ " Soren asked, scandalized, and stood there for a moment just to gape.

Zevran was in bed at least, and there was a small table dragged to the bedside that Soren quickly went over: bloodied thread and scissors, a half-used poultice of elfroot, and two empty glass vials of some sort of potion. Zevran's flask was also on the table but if it was laying like that then it was empty. The idiot had a bottle of wine held by the neck and a crooked, slurring smile on his dreamy face.

" _Just_ something to numb the pain, you _know?_ " Zevran's long blond hair was completely unbound, but unwashed and ratty-looking. His sun-dark cheeks were kissed from the wine and he had his arms up over the pillowy mounds of blankets and furs on his bed. He'd folded one of his ears over completely to look at Soren from the bed, and if he didn't stop that he'd have a mark on his cheek for it.

"No I do not know." How injured was he? Soren approached but couldn't see what was wrong yet. " _Give me that._ "

"It's empty anyways!" Zevran's sing-song voice worried him but he decided to just look angry instead, taking the empty wine bottle away and setting it on the crowded little table. "How was Amaranthine?"

"I was gone for _one night_ and you two go off and try to get yourselves killed." It wasn't his hands, arms, or shoulders because he was moving those just fine. Soren lit the room's candles with a thought, raising his hand to the hearth and drawing it back from embers into bright yellow flames. He needed the light, and with it he could ignore Zevran's complaints and take note of how easily his eyes could find and follow Soren across the room. It wasn't his head. He was drunk but plainly lucid.

"Boo, you're taking this so personally," Zevran pouted at him, complete with his lip stuck all the way out as Soren came back to the bed. "We brought you oranges?"

"Is it _so_ inconceivable that I care more about your safety than I do about citrus?" He let anger lick at his words and swept his hands together, drawing cool strands of dousing magic down through his palms and out from his fingertips. The glyph spun and twisted rapidly into form, and Soren brushed his palm up and back across Zevran's forehead, parting his hair gently before his other fingers traced from brow over eyes, over cheeks, past chin and throat and to chest. Nothing he touched was injured- no more than a few bruises and one shallow cut across his forearm. Good. "What _happened?"_

"Everything was fine until it stopped," Zevran mumbled, his eyes closed with the sensation of magic passing through his body, lips slurring the words.

"Stopped what?"

"Being fine."

' _I'm going to hit him_ ,' Soren held fiercely to that thought.

 _Such an act would run contrary to your purpose and desires, my friend._

Not now, Duty. _Not now_.

" _Brother…_ Brother- Soren." Zevran reached up and touched the hand resting over his hair, the dousing magic still hanging through him. His eyes opened with a bit more lucidity this time, coming through the drink. "It's my leg. I broke my leg. I'm alright." He felt the worry rise hot and stinging up his throat, acid splashing at the back of his mouth.

"Broken bones can cause blood sickness and _you started drinking?_ " He hissed in a tight voice, ignoring Zevran's hushes and dismissals and _'We knew you'd be home eventually's_. None of that was the point! "Just- _lay still_." And let him work.

"…It was an emergency." Zevran spoke up with Soren's hands recasting their spell from his chest and moving down through darkness- "Morrigan's friends in Tevinter needed assistance, a surprise, and unfortunately there was one particularly astute fellow with a great big hammer that-" -there was not supposed to be darkness there.

"Zevran," Soren interrupted him, pulling the blankets and furs back down to his friend's knees. Soren then leaned over the bed and pushed his hands under Zevran's hips, cradling them, and looked at him. "Does this hurt?" He kept the magic flowing.

"Eeh… maybe?" He sounded genuinely unsure. That was not good. "I took a bad hit to the gut, but it's my leg that hurts most, Soren. The rest will go away."

"This is why you drink _after_ the healer visits you, _not before_." Soren scolded again because it was easier to scold than to explain the heavy darkness pooling deep in Zevran's gut, the wealth of mislaid blood that belonged elsewhere and would inspire far more pain than a broken leg and some bruises would account for. "All of your pain, one to ten. Tell me?"

"Pah, for a former Crow? A soft three." He rambled off. Soren adjusted the measurement.

"If I had Carver Hawke on this bed instead?" Zevran closed one eye in a lazy blink to think about it.

"Oh… an easy eight and a half." He was _impossible_ when drunk. "I, uh, trust you? And your magic. What do _you_ think is wrong?"

"Your life choices," Soren rambled off, taking his hands off his friend and turning away from the bed. He couldn't do this in heavy armour and fought with the straps buckling his breastplate to his body. He pulled off the sleeves of his gold robe and let the whole thing fold down over his belts and faulds, getting the breastplate off with a hard thump. The silverite mail wouldn't come off without removing everything around it first, but the gorget around his neck unclasped and came off.

"I am not so incompetent as to leave him in dire straights," Morrigan's voice wafted into the room from the doorway and Soren just continued to doff his armour. He didn't want the weight and clumsy mess of it right now. "Soren, tis a broken leg."

"How long ago did you two come home?" He asked them both by looking at neither of them. For fuck's sake, he grew annoyed to hide his fear and pulled the buckles off. The belts, the faulds, the weight of his robe. He dropped it in a heap and pulled the chain mail off over his head. Black shirt and trousers were enough, the greaves over his boots he was too stubborn to deal with and he rolled up the sleeves to his elbows before turning around again.

"A few hours?" Zevran mumbled.

"Before dawn," Morrigan added, but with a low scowl. "He was well."

"Morrigan I am not blaming either of you." He told them shortly, pulling up Zevran's shirt and rolling his palms together with several tugs and twists of cold liquid power webbing through his fingers. Duty pressed close to the veil and Soren set the loom in place so he could work. "Velanna should have been summoned but it doesn't matter because now I'm here and I can fix it." An injury like this at dawn would not have been blatant. It was… there it was.

Something in him had ruptured- not completely, not disastrously, but it had been torn just the same. Through the pain in his leg and the alcohol and his own tolerance Zevran hadn't noticed it yet, but he would soon, and-

" _Oh-_ " Now Zevran noticed it, his hands quickly grabbing the blankets not in a response to pain, but to the invasive sensation of _magic_. "Oh I don't like that- Maker, am I _pregnant?_ " Morrigan was free to laugh at his comment, Soren kept his focus steady.

"No," he answered, "you're _bleeding_." He slid one hand under his friend's body again, keeping his other hand flat against his stomach and pressing firmly down. It was easier to position everything if- there. His hands were aligned, the damage was between them, and it was less strain than trying to place a large glyph over the sheets but under his body and spin a second one. Much easier to just…

Drain the blood, guide the fluids, twist parts and pieces and layers back into the arrangement they needed to be in. To meld flesh back into whole components of a mosaic constructed by the Maker to work just so and with a certain harmony. Warmth to ease pain, pressure to stop movement, and Zevran's patient self-control until Soren was satisfied. He let his powers withdraw, took his hands from his friend's body, and straightened up. He pulled down Zevran's shirt and then replaced the blankets over him, tucking them up under his arms so he was covered, warm, and well.

Morrigan had approached the bed with ill-concealed concern on her tired face and was stroking her fingertips very gently down through Zevran's hair. The assassin himself was very quiet. Soren moved from the silent danger in his gut to the more obvious damage done to his bruised and swollen leg. It was broken below the knee, the bruising suggested a heavy blow had done the damage, and Soren was quite angry over the fact that he hadn't been there to ensure whoever had done the hitting had paid for it.

The fracture was not clean. It took several minutes of careful focus and many threads of stable blue light twisting and weaving between his fingers to gather each shard and fragment of bone and slip it back into place. The muscles needed to be massaged and soothed, returning to their proper form, the skin needed attention to ease the bruising and manage the discolouration of his flesh. But this was not life-threatening work. A broken leg would not kill Soren's brother today.

With Duty and Soren's worries satisfied, he dispelled his magic and finished his work, turning aside just so he could sit on the bed next to Zevran and close his eyes for a moment, shoulders bowed from the sustained effort. He felt a warm hand cup around his wrist and move up his arm, and saw Zevran's sorry-looking face frowning up at him.

"It was not my intention to worry you, Soren. I'm sorry." He shook his head, it wasn't that simple.

"I'm not worried about you two getting hurt," He answered in a tired voice. "It's when you both decide to just wait around when there are other healers available that's upsetting. Please take more care next time."

"I will," Zevran pledged. "She won't, but I will." Another smug laugh met that comment. Soren rubbed his face all over with both hands, and then surprised himself a little bit by yawning into the tent of his hands. He had slept no better in Amaranthine than he had at any point since taking the embrium, but now there were practically tears in his eyes from fatigue.

So he made the decision to twist around, swing his feet up onto the bed, and laid down with his arms folded over his chest and his eyes closed, head resting on one of Zevran's pillows with his friend's arm cast behind his shoulders. Zevran's gasp was expected, welcome, and very dramatic.

"Such scandal! Could it be, have the wiles of a notoriously attractive scoundrel sundered true love's embrace? To my sinful bed, does the Hero of Ferelden fall?" Morrigan laughed softly, Soren settled for a smirk with his eyes closed, arms still crossed.

"Lo, have you not heard the news?" He quoted with a deep rumble in his chest. "Lady Morrigan has left me for the Arishok of Qunandar. She secrets into his orchards at night and he gifts her with the sweetest fruits of the grove. What mere elf can compete with that?"

"A perfect pair, the two of you make." Morrigan mocked them as she walked around the bed, and Soren opened his eyes again so he could see her before she bent down and placed a sweet kiss over his lips. The hand she stroked through his hair was pleasant too. She tasted like clementines… "You," she placed a hand on Zevran's chest. "-will rest. And you," that hand moved to Soren's face. "-will mind your charge. I am going to outdo both of you by enjoying a wonderfully hot bath. Sleep well, for I shall not play nurse and wake either of you should you sleep through supper."

"Okay, but make him take his boots off first," Zevran whined to her in a childish voice. "I don't want boots in my bed."

"I'm not in your bed, I'm on top of it." Soren countered, hooking one ankle over the other and wiggling his toes a little inside said boots.

"He saved my life, and now I have to push him on the floor," Zevran groaned, seeking sympathy from Morrigan who was already walking away, her fingertips dousing candles as she went.

"I wish you luck in that endeavour, my friend, but he is most persistent when tired. Enjoy your nap together."

"Noo, don't go…!" Zevran cried, but Morrigan slipped from the room without another look back. "He's going to cuddle me!" Hey-

"I do _not_ -"

"You lay in _my_ _bed_ and you lie to _my face,_ brother, I am _wounded_."

"Move over and give me space."

"Have you no respect for the _dying?"_ That melodramatic voice despaired in the warm gloom. Soren just hummed back at him, and with a bracing touch to make sure Zevran didn't hurt himself, the other man twisted onto his side and his arm was freed from under Soren's shoulders. He could very well have gone to his own room and his own bed with his actual lover to try and sleep, but he was already here, and he was already feeling warm, and he already…

Soren sat up, earned himself a complaint from Zevran about how he was only kidding, pulled off his own boots and then laid down again.

"M'lord, I'm touched."

"Mmh." Zevran's hair stank of sulfur and smoke, his breath was heavy with wine. There was the unpleasant tang of blood and poultice on his skin. The bed was soft and warm and Soren was tired when he rolled onto his side and closer to his friend. He ignored Zevran's attempts to pull the blankets out from under him so he could be covered up as well.

He slept, or tried to sleep.

It was enough for now.

* * *

The storm berating the Amaranthine coast came into its own at evening bell, when the face of the hurricane swallowed the city of Amaranthine and turned her roads to rivers. The flooding in the city was confined to the harbour district, and those who needed shelter found it in the open arms of Our Lady Redeemer Cathedral, overseen by Grand Cleric Brona of Amaranthine who tended the frightened and frigid from under Andraste's holy gaze. It was deemed, come dawn, that no lives were lost to the storm, and word was sent forth to Vigil's Keep to alert the Arl.

Waves had overwhelmed the storm walls and the docks were washed with white water that lifted them from their rocky beds. For the ships tethered to those docks, it had been a rough and terrible night.

The _Marcher Coast_ of Starkhaven snapped her lines and drifted from the docks before a great swell slammed her into the stone wharf by the harbour master's tower, sundering her bow and leaving her beached with her nose stuck through the shattered wall of a warehouse. The _Fat Freighter_ from Rivain pitched so hard when her dock crumbled that she took water through the starboard side and listed over, half-sunk and beaten by the waves. Not to be outdone, the _Lady Freeborn_ of Wycome, contracted ship of the Eighth Lion Merchant Fleet, slammed her belly against the harbour breakers too many times and swallowed a hundred tonnes of sea water into her freight-heavy hold. This was not, however, as bad as what happened to the _Grinning Galleon_ , who broke free of the docks, drifted through the storm swells, and became swamped and sank in the very middle of the harbour with only her masts sticking from the dawn waters like petrified trees.

For Samar Ashera, ten-year veteran and known Boatswain to the Eighth Lion Merchant Fleet, this was unexpected. He could inspect the rigging and the sails all he liked from the dock, but with a great big hole in the ship's belly clear even from the shore, not to mention the obvious liquid cargo under her gangway, there wasn't much else to do except look to his captain and shrug.

"I'll sign whatever needs to be signed, Ashera, but our Lady isn't going anywhere for a good six weeks or more. Find another vessel to carry you home for the winter, it won't be ours."

"Oh, and what other ship is going to take an _elf_ as boatswain?" Samar laughed at the bad news because there was nothing else worth doing. He'd busted his arse getting back to Amaranthine city before dawn after the whirlwind and riot of Vigil's Keep, only to show up soaking wet and now without a ship to sail out on. "I'll make better money labouring in the city from now until the Freeborn's up again. I'm not going back to swabbing and we were the Lion's last ship for Amaranthine this season where they'd take me as a rigger." The company was good like that: if you had the seals and documents from the right captain, you could keep your job when changing ships. Still, for an elf it wasn't wise to go switching crew unless you absolutely had to. Captain Hevelt was good to him, or at least not fucking awful or likely to dock his ears for stupid mistakes Samar had long outgrown making anyways. Even if the Captain didn't like him per-sey, he was honourable and his Quartermaster- _she_ liked him. This was a good ship for him.

And, apparently, his loyalty was good for the captain, because he seemed surprised.

"You'll wait for us?" The human asked him with some sense of surprise.

"Maferath's Shame, Captain, I've seen you take off two Raiders' heads with one swing, and never needed count my coin after payment." Not quite true but _shhh_ , this was business. "As soon as you've a ship, you've got your boatswain."

"Will I find you around the docks?"

"No, I've a brother who serves at Vigil's Keep." If brother was really the word for it after what Samar had seen yesterday. "I'll see what's available to me there and send word to you, check back every few days to see how the Lady's doing. Otherwise, don't mind me, I'll find my way back when it's time."

"Good on you, elf." And then the Captain, in _great_ show Samar had not expected, offered a hand out to him. "Mind yourself, I won't be pleased to hunt down another boatswain at the eleventh hour if you don't come back. Calm waters carry you."

"And swift winds bring you home, Captain." Which concluded their business together.

Samar loitered on the docks for much of that morning, eventually finding a smaller vessel whose crew were laughing and drinking their good fortune at having only snapped rigging and some debris on the deck to worry about, not their brow crammed up the harbour master's arse like the Fat Freighter. They were bound for Gwaren but with a stop along the way in Denerim first. Didn't matter, they'd still get there before Samar did. He wrote on crude paper with dull ink and sealed it up with a rub of wax, handing over an entire silver to see it delivered to the Alienage in Gwaren. The Hahren would get it to either Rian or Ariyah, and they would know Samar wasn't _dead_.

Wasn't until he'd already walked away that he remembered he hadn't said a damned thing about their brother, but shook it off. He didn't know what he would have said anyways. Maybe next time he'd have something worth muddling out on paper.

Horseless now as the Arl of Amaranthine's coin had only taken him to and from the Vigil once, Samar Ashera walked the winding, rainy road back to Vigil's Keep.


	12. Questioning the Chemist

**Say Something, Thedas Love Theme, Rogue Heart,**

* * *

 ** _Echoes of Arlathan_**

Questioning the Chemist

Jylan's fever broke that evening. By morning after the hurricane blew itself out he awoke at his usual time with much of his energy and strength restored. He completed fourteen push-ups and ten sit-ups, collected his clothing, and then took himself to bathe before breaking fast. This was not his usual routine as on bathing days he would typically wait until the evening and remove the sweat and smells of the day, but as he had been ill for the previous four days it was proper that he tend to his body first.

Bathing, dressing, and drying his hair took up the entirety of the morning before first bell, but this was an acceptable use of time as he had no deliveries to make in the meantime. He collected his breakfast of bread, jam, butter, and apple. He collected Dirthamen from the kennel. He was strong enough to lift the cauldron and fill it properly with water, to strike the fire without assistance or strain.

The oil was collected and added to a pot with reagents necessary to make glue. The glue was then left to set while dye was extracted from amaranthe seed pods. When the glue was sufficiently cooled it was bottled, sealed, and labelled for delivery. The dye was extracted, concentrated, bottled, and labelled. The lard was rendered into oil and mixed with sufficient properties of lye and scent. It was stirred over heat, then poured into a prepared block mold, and left to cool and set for the next three days as soap.

Three requisitions of twenty-one.

"Ah, it appears your health has been restored." He was grinding ox bone when the woman's voice came to him from the door. The bone was properly dried and heavy, it ground down into a chalky powder when raked against the hard surface of the mortar. He did not yet have the proper quantity of powder and thus did not pause his labour. "When you have a moment, Compounder, I would speak with you."

He did not have a moment until he had completed his current task. The ox bone was rendered down to a quarter-cup of powder and scooped, measured, weighed, and deposited into the bowl for mixing. The remaining bones were then returned to the wooden box they were stored in. The box was returned to its shelf among the cupboards. He washed his hands. Now he had a moment.

"Lady Morrigan." There was a chair next to the door that she had taken while waiting for him to complete his task. She rose from that chair now and strode towards him, holding a parcel of waxed paper which he accepted with both hands.

"For your professional use," she explained as Jylan's hands opened the bundle to reveal a number of torn orange rinds. Clementines. "Make of them what you will, you know your stores and the Vigil's needs better than I." They were fresh and gave off an incredibly pleasant aroma, their orange skins nearly red in places. He did not understand how she had come to acquire the rinds in this state, but they were fragrant and of excellent quality. He pinched one of them and felt the fruit's oils wet his fingers, lifting his hand and taking a breath of fresh scent.

"These are best used to distill a fine quality oil for aromatics and soaps, although a portion may be dried and shredded for use in medicinal teas." He reported to her. "Thank you for bringing them to me."

"Tis no trouble," she answered with a calm nod. Lady Morrigan's gown was sewn with many kinds of dark fabric, many of them soft and silken by sight, and she held herself with poise. "But I had more in mind than a mere delivery this morning. I have a few questions for you, Compounder."

Although he did not consider it part of his duties to converse with other denizens of the Vigil, he was not ignorant of Lady Morrigan's standing within the Keep. She was the Warden Commander's Mistress and in many ways commanded the respect and ability of any Arlessa. He was permitted to speak to relevant persons during the work day.

"I will answer to my fullest ability, Lady Morrigan."

"Good." The sorceress closed the workshop door and then approached the table standing between them, resting one hand on her hip with a rope of emeralds circling her wrist. "I am given to understand, Compounder, that you bear certain scars across your back from your time in the Circle of Magi. Is this true?"

"This is a question of personal nature, but yes, Lady Morrigan, I do."

"Thin white lines?" She pressed. "Do you possess them on any other parts of your body?"

"The undersides of my forearms, as well as my calves and backside." He did not understand her asking but did not withhold his answers. The scars did not pain him, not even in the coldest parts of the year. They were old scars and the wounds had been very shallow. Tender and stinging, but shallow.

"Certainly then such places would only be struck as a means of humiliation," Lady Morrigan reasoned aloud, touching a finger to her darkly rouged lips. "Were they acquired before or after you were made tranquil?"

"Before, Lady Morrigan." There was little to gain by beating a tranquil mage.

"I had not known it was in the Templar mindset to brandish a cane as a tool of keeping the mages penned up in their tower." She was mistaken.

"It was not, Lady Morrigan." He corrected her, and then proceeded to explain the matter: "Martial punishments by Templars were often given in the form of isolation, exposure, and severe rationing. Day to day corrections and punitive matters were addressed either quietly by Circle Enchanters, or openly by the Chantry."

"I have never heard of a quiet beating, Compounder."

"An Enchanter could be expected to strike misbehaving Apprentices across the hands during a lesson," he explained. "But this was not a common recourse, not even in my own personal experiences of rampant misbehaviour. Mages were more likely to demand more assignments, displays of magic, or chores than resort to corporal punishment." His comment intrigued her and this was shown by her half-smile and the way her dark brows lifted across her face.

"' _Rampant_ ' misbehaviour, Compounder? I am shocked."

"I was often considered a spirited apprentice, Lady Morrigan. The Rite of Tranquility stripped me of such compulsions." Her intrigue dimmed. As an apostate Lady Morrigan had never lived within the confines of a Circle and therefore it was uncertain she had much experience with the Tranquil.

"We shall let the matter rest. I gather from what you've said then that the scars you bear were inflicted upon you by the Chantry priests who served the Circle? But these abuses stopped once you were made tranquil."

"Yes, Lady Morrigan." Both points were correct.

"What was your tenure at Kinloch Hold?"

"I was brought to the Circle of Magi shortly after the end of the Fifth Blight, early in Nine-Thirty-One, Dragon. I was an Apprentice from Thirty-One until Thirty-Six, when at the age of sixteen I was subjected to the Rite of Tranquility. I served as one of the Tranquil until the dissolution of the Circles in Nine-Thirty-Eight, Dragon."

"You were young." He did not respond to her comment. The words were presented in such a way that it did not seem she had intended to speak them. Her voice was soft. The phrase quiet. There was no sound except the water boiling in the cauldron behind him. "List for me, if you remember them, the reasons why an Apprentice would be subjected to such thorough punishments by the priests."

He gathered his thoughts momentarily, and then spoke.

"In incomplete order and without reference to severity." He began: "Theft of food from the dining hall, sharing food between Apprentices, eating too much at meal times, eating too little at meal times, tardiness at prayer, loitering in the Chantry, reading the Chant of Light without permission, singing the Chant of Light without permission, singing the Chant of Light inappropriately or poorly, misquoting the Chant of Light, questioning interpretations of the Chant of Light, disagreeing with Chantry Initiates, disagreeing with Templar Squires, quarrels amongst other apprentices, back talk in any form against any other member of the Circle Hierarchy, disruptive noise in the tower hall, disruptive noise in the Apprentice Quarters, disruptive noise at night, disruptions during prayer, excessive conversation during chores, poorly executed chores, dirty robes, unmended robes, unbrushed hair, dirty fingernails-"

"-enough." Lady Morrigan raised a hand and he was silent. He would not interrupt the Lady of Vigil's Keep. She seemed disturbed by his incomplete list of infractions. "These are all, from your fingernails to your appetite, reasons which a child within the Circle could be _beaten_ with such severity that it left scars across your body, Compounder?"

"Depending on the frequency of the infraction, the temperament of the Apprentice, and the temperament of the Chantry official administering the punishment, then yes, Lady Morrigan."

"I will leave you to your work, Compounder. Put this conversation from your mind." He nodded to her and she left without further conversation. He resumed his duties.

Shortly before the midday bell Mistress Valora visited him. She disapproved once more of his insistence on returning to work, but he reported to her his remaining symptoms of fatigue and lingering cough and she was content to let him remain within the workshop. He was provided with elfroot tea and a portion of thick duck stew which he warmed by the fire for his lunch. She left before the bell tolled.

As he ate the stew during his hour of rest, Warden Velanna came to him. She checked his fever, spun a web of warm magic through his chest, forgoing any request for such attention, and then with a stinging touch of her forehead to his brand she departed. He continued to eat. An'eth did not visit him today. He returned Dirthamen to the kennels as he would not be venturing from the keep today. He returned the workshop and resumed his duties at the conclusion of the hour.

Two block molds of soaps were curing. A batch of red ink was concentrating. The glue had been bottled, the dye had been bottled, the wax had not yet rendered from the comb, the face cream was setting, the tooth powder was cooling, the paint was awaiting its pigment which was still fermenting, the witch hazel rub was prepared and labelled.

Jylan found a balled up, used handkerchief in his own pocket and was given pause by it. He did not own this. He had dirtied it, but it was not his. It was monogrammed with An'eth's name; it bore a Grey Warden Griffon. It was not his. He would return it. Not in its present state.

He heated water in one of his smallest pots, added a quarter tea spoon of laundry soap from the batch, and let the water begin to steam. He rinsed the handkerchief in cold water first, smacking it against the side of the counter and wringing it out tightly. He put the linen sheet in the hot water and soap and stirred it for ten minutes continuously with a wooden rod. He removed the sheet, rinsed it, wrung it, and let it hang to dry.

He swept the workshop floor, wiped down the counters, prepared the completed requisitions for delivery tomorrow morning, and-

"I, uh, guess you're feeling better?" He completed his present task of rinsing and setting aside his tools to dry overnight, then washed his hands, then dried them, and then turned to face the speaker at the door. It was the sailor; it was Samar. His brother.

"Yes, I am recovered enough to resume my duties." His brother was very wet and dripping, this was a poor state for him to be in as Jylan himself had just recently recovered from his own bought of cold illness. "I have not yet doused the fire, and I may provide you with a hot drink to ease your present condition. I did not expect to see you return to Vigil's Keep."

"Well, you're family. I can't just walk away from you in good conscience." His brother explained himself with a crooked smile and then entered the workshop properly, losing his smile in his eagerness to approach the flames and crouch down by the rippling red embers. "I'll take you up on that hot drink though. Maker, it's freezing out there still."

"You are not appropriately dressed for the cold."

" _Brilliant_ insight, that." Samar answered as Jylan fetched a cup and the jar of dried herbs blended with red berries. The aromatic mixture had few healing properties, but brewed quickly and easily in the pair of cups. "It gets warm under the sun on the high seas, alright? Not that I'll be seeing them again for a while." Jylan fetched the honey as well. "Pulling out all the stops, eh?"

He was uncertain how to respond, so did not. He placed a coil of honey in one of the cups, and left the jar available for Samar to use for himself. His brother indulged with a tired smile, and the jar was then returned to its place.

"That's a good blend…" Samar sighed after a mouthful of hot tea, shivering a little under his wet hide cape and cradling the cup with both hands. He slouched over his stool at the work table. "Nice and soft, I like it."

"Mint, raspberry, and white chamomile," Jylan explained the blend. "All grown within Vigil's Keep. Have you eaten today?"

"Bite of bread and ale by the docks this morning, a shred of fish from a vendor before walking back to the Keep." Then he would be hungry, it was a long walk from Amaranthine City to Vigil's Keep.

"Remain here, I will return." He left the workshop door unlocked and returned to his room. He did not understand Mistress Stockard's intentions in leaving half a dozen honey cakes in his room, but he had only eaten two of them while ill. Picking up the remaining four in their linen wrap, he brought them back to the workshop. Samar's surprise was obvious from how his eyes lit up and the tips of his ears dropped just so at the sight.

"Don't mind if I _do_." He took one as soon as they were offered and bit into it. The crumbly golden cakes were becoming stale after so many days, but they remained sweet and dense and paired well with the tea. Samar ate two of them and took another deep breath and drank from his cup, finishing his tea. Then he spoke in an unexpected manner:

"I'll come clean now," he said, and Jylan paused his own eating to listen closely. "The hurricane knocked holes in the ship I sailed in on. I'm out of work for the next two months until they get her raised and repaired in Amaranthine. Any idea where I might find work around Vigil's Keep?"

"Such inquiries should be directed to the Seneschal," Jylan answered. "However, it is not clear to me why you would seek work within the Vigil and not Amaranthine City, as I understood you to be a sailor by trade."

"Aye, and a good one too, but I like my ship and I like my captain and I like my pay with the fleet. I'm here until the ship is repaired, and until then, Jeevan, I'm here to see _you_."

"My name is-"

"Jeevan." Jylan. " _Jeevan Ashera_ , quit making me tell you twice."

"My name was recorded as Jylan Ansera by the Circle Administration."

"Well then the Circle Administration spelled their words as well as I do because our mother named you Jeevan and that's your fucking name." A rebuttal was required.

"It is possible that you have mistaken me for someone else." Samar thumped his hand on the table but did not yell. He raised his voice, but did not yell.

"Oh! Another elf of your description with siblings the same as mine, from the same place, and the same age?" The odds rendered that possibility highly unlikely. "Did you ever meet a Jeevan in the Fereldan Circle of Magi?"

"I did not."

"Then it's you, _Jeevan_ , so get used to it." He was very satisfied with that pronouncement and broke off a portion of Jylan's unfinished cake, popping it in his mouth. The act was familiar, but the memory had faded.

"All records and associated documents related to my position and abilities are written to address me as-"

"As a mockery of the name your _dead mother_ gave you. _Respect it_ , and take it back. Your name is Jeevan."

"No." There was a memory. It was old. It was dark and smelled like something. It felt like raised marks over his shoulders. It ached of a sore throat and stuffed sinuses. It was old.

"Your name is-"

"No." It echoed. Samar's statement and assertion of fact. Jylan's refusal, adamant but not convincing. Somewhere dark and with pain and the waiting crack of a cane. But there had been a smell, a scent. If he could smell it again then he would remember. The memory on its own was too faint and could not sustain itself, even with his focus dedicated to unearthing it. Samar continued to speak to him but Jylan did not register his words or his meaning.

He rose from the table, approached the cupboards, ignored the voice behind him. He moved jars and glass bottles, found a small ceramic pot and pulled the lid off: dried cloves. No. He replaced it. Cardamom. No. Witch hazel. No. Cinnamon. No. Frankincense.

Frankincense.

Chantry incense burning in censers upon the alter before the statue of Andraste. The dark ceiling of the unlit chantry hall within Kinloch Hold. Revered Mother Senna's voice and the cane in her hand and his forehead pressed to a copy of the Chant of Light on the floor, wrists hurting from holding his weight, knees bruising on the cold stone floor.

' _Your name is Jylan_ ,' and then a blistering pain on his bare skin. _'Andraste has brought you here and given you your name. You will respect the saviour of your people and your kind, your name is Jylan of the Circle of Magi. You are a mage. You will recognize Andraste's guidance over your life. Your name is-'_

He had protested. The tears had made his sinuses swell and clog. The crying had hurt his lungs. The cane had bruised and then cut his skin. The method had been repeated until he stopped transgressing against the Chantry.

He had created a mnemonic to remember his siblings' names in secret. He had not known enough letters to write it. He had chanted it to sleep in the Apprentice Quarters laying quietly above Connor Guerrin's bed. He had changed his name to Jylan to remove the chance of punishment.

He remembered.

"-not listening to me at all now, are you?"

Jylan- Jeevan? Jylan. The name he had worn for over half his life. Jylan replaced the top on the jar of frankincense and placed it on the counter. He looked at Samar and saw the frustrated look on his brother's face, but the sailor was also quiet and clearly waiting for his attention to return.

"What was all that about?" He asked his question and gestured to the pots now resting out on the counter.

"I apologize, Samar. I was mistaken," he stated. "The name our mother gave me was altered and taken from me within the Circle of Magi. Although I do not know the due process to begin changing it back, nor am I capable of judging if such effort would be well spent, I will no longer protest your use of that name."

"What- just like that? You all of the sudden remember now?"

"It is not a memory I have revisited in many years. It was not one I knew I still possessed until just now." When the banter between them and the scent of the resin prompted it. "The process of losing my name was not pleasant. It was no doubt for my own benefit that I repressed the memory of it."

"Are you really going to be that cold about it?"

"I am not being cold; I am being truthful." He stated. "It was unpleasant, perhaps even traumatic. I was only a child." He had been no more than nine or ten years old.

"What did they do to you?" His brother asked, and the cold tremor of horror from yesterday returned to his voice. Jylan considered the possibility of not telling him at all, but decided against it. If he withheld the information then Samar may be prompted to yell at him again. He would prefer not to be shouted at.

"I was beaten until I stopped using that name."

Samar immediately stood. His horror and concern were clearly woven across his face. He approached Jylan quickly and he was not given time to brace or move away: he was taken very tightly into his brother's arms and to his wet shoulders and warm skin. He smelled like wet leather and cold air and- and his skin… smelled like…

An old wooden table, too tall to see over. Rushes on the floor that smelled sweet and bitter together in the rain. Thin linen sheets and a ratty quilt and a thick wool blanket and an old wolf's pelt and a few scraps of velvet and half a dozen other layers of many beds all pushed together to share warmth. The smell of many people and sound of many voices and soft limbs with a round tummy too tender for him to pick up or carry.

"They were supposed to _protect_ you…" Samar's voice was hushed and heavy, he was holding him very, very tightly. His arms did not bruise through Jylan's robes by they were strong and tight and even if he attempted to break free he likely would not have been able to do so. His brother's face was very close to his neck and he used one hand to pull the hood down, holding him tighter still. " _I'm sorry…_ I'll call you whatever you want, I'm just _sorry_ …"

If a hug could physically put someone back together, then that was what Jylan recognized in Samar's embrace. If his brother could have changed anything about the past by holding tightly to him now, then he would have done so. It was unfortunate that there was nothing for him to mend or repair. There was struggle but no release, no fruit to the emotional labour his sibling was engaged in at present. He stood there and he was embraced and it was physically pleasant. He was held warmly by someone who smelled of something far away but familiar. He was not uncomfortable.

"As you are my eldest brother, I have no intention of influencing you beyond limiting the experience of confusion throughout the fortress." He explained, his arms settled close but not tight around his sibling's torso, holding him firmly and with clear intention, but not squeezing. "You may refer to me by my birth name at all times. However, I must ask that you refrain from belligerent correction of those who know me exclusively by my Chantry name." Samar kissed him.

It was not expected.

"Yes, that's fine- I'll do that." His brother kissed his cheek and then quickly kissed the other, then repeated both gestures. He was choked up and distressed, green eyes shimmering with tears, and he released the hug so he could take Jylan's face and brush his thumbs over his cheeks, a gesture which implied an attempt to sooth despite Jylan himself feeling no distress. His brother, in contrast, was deeply moved and displaying clear pain and hurt over this interaction. "I'll do whatever it takes for as long as I'm here, Jeevan, I will."

"I have once again caused you great emotional pain, Samar. I apologize for-"

"You _shut up_." He was scolded, and his brother choked on the words. "You're not dead, that's enough. That's enough for me. I lost two brothers and now I've got one back again, not all of you maybe but enough of you. I just wish I could take you home with me."

"I am of greater value to our family here with my contract to the Grey Wardens." Samar was already nodding, shaking tears loose down his cheeks as he did so.

"I know… I know that… the Seneschal told me yesterday." His brother kissed his brand- the pressure ached, it- was quickly ended by a return to the strong-armed embrace. The hug was more tolerable than the kiss, the hug was something he could return with his eyes sliding shut. It was pleasant affection. "You do good by Rian and them, Jeevan. And I mean it. I may not be smart like Rian but I know enough numbers to get what I was told. You do good by them, and I'm proud of you." This was a pleasant admission on behalf of his brother.

"Thank you." Samar's hand touched the back of his head and stroked down over his braided hair, then rose and repeated the gesture. It was pleasing.

"Jylan?" The voice pulled them from each other. Jylan opened his eyes and his brother was much faster to drop his arms and separate, albeit not by much. He was given space to turn, and immediately recognized the Warden standing in the partly open door of the workshop. This was good.

"Warden Athras." He nodded to welcome her inside. She entered the workshop and quietly closed the door behind her. She was wearing her Dalish vestments, long pleated leather boots that left her toes and heels bare on the stone floor, lengths of white cotton crossed with green felts and tan furs tucked and twisted around her slim figure. A leather bandolier across her torso held a satchel and sheathed dagger, and a thick grey scarf wound around her throat showed she had been about the castle, but perhaps not outside in the dwindling storm. Her grey eyes settled on Samar with confusion, then back to Jylan.

"Who is this?" She asked in a soft voice. The tone was uncharacteristic of her, but he complied with her request.

"This is my brother, Samar, from Gwaren." Jylan introduced them with a gesture. "His ship was damaged in last night's storm and it has delayed him here in Amaranthine until it can be repaired. Samar," for his brother's benefit now. "This is Lady An'eth Danyla Athras of Clan Zathrian, Warden Corporal of Amaranthine. She is my friend." Samar nodded to him, and then looked to An'eth politely with a respectful nod and bow of his shoulders.

"There seem to be a lot of elves in the Fereldan Grey Wardens." His brother made the comment awkwardly, but threw a shaken smile onto things. "I guess that's a good thing, right?"

"I… suppose so." An'eth did not speak easily and that, again, was unlike her.

"Warden Athras was one of the three Grey Wardens who journeyed to Gwaren last spring to meet with Rian in the Alienage." Jylan explained this and it earned a soft _ah_ from Samar, who then turned a more critical eye on An'eth. No. That had not been his intention.

"So what's the deal?" His brother asked her. "Did Rian just choke on his tongue every time you called him the wrong name, or did you forget to mention it to my brother here?"

"Mention what?" An'eth asked, remembering herself with a more direct look at Samar now. Jylan's brother, like himself, was noticeably taller than the warrior before them.

"You mean to tell me you went around the entire Gwaren alienage asking for some Ansera family and no one bothered to tell you it was _Ashera?_ " An'eth's cheeks coloured briefly, and she looked at Jylan.

"We… assumed it was a mistake, that the chantry would have recorded Jylan's name from your parents and the siblings just had…"

"Had just forgotten our own name? _Thanks_." Samar folded his arms over his chest, but he took a surprisingly cavalier tone with a Grey Warden, and it was one An'eth tolerated patiently. "Guess this is what they mean about Dalish impressions of us flat-ears, eh? Too stupid to remember our own names?"

"It was a callous and unfair assumption on our part, Master Ashera." An'eth apologized and Jylan reasoned that he stood to be corrected on this matter. He was missing some integral part of the reason why the Warden should apologize to the Sailor. "But I consider your brother someone very dear to me, and nothing I or Warden Velanna did was intended to harm or isolate him from his family."

"Dear to you, huh?" Samar held his silence long enough to disregard another comment before making this one. He regarded Jylan briefly, then looked back and forth between him and An'eth for a moment. "You call her your friend?"

"Yes."

"Fine, who'm I to judge." It was not Samar's place to insert himself as a judge of Jylan's connections or acquaintanceships with other people within the Vigil, it was good that he recognized the matter and it did not warrant explicit explanation.

"Jylan, can I speak with you privately for a moment?" An'eth spoke her request in a rush, fingers beginning to twist and worry together. This anxiety was unlike her. "You weren't in your room or fetching your dinner, and the weather was too foul for you to be in the gardens. I know you must be happy to see your brother, but- this is important. It won't take long, I promise." He disregarded her comment about happiness and nodded to answer the request itself.

"The work day has concluded and the hours are my own." He made his statement and then looked to his brother. "Samar, if you would wait a few minutes outside. When Warden Athras and I have concluded our meeting, I will take you to the servant's mess hall where we shall establish whether you may receive a full portion from the kitchens, or be required to share from my allotment. A meeting with the Seneschal will no doubt have to wait until tomorrow morning."

"You really are always this formal about everything, aren't you?" Jylan nodded at the question, and his brother heaved a sigh and then nodded back to him, giving Warden Athras a warry look before inclining another brief bow to her. He left the workshop and swung the door shut behind him with a soft click.

"Jylan-" she came to him at once and took both his hands in hers, squeezing tightly before her touch walked up his arms, to his shoulders, to his face. Her raw voice was full of pain when she gasped and spoke to him. "Did I _hurt_ you? Have I done something wrong? Jylan, please, if I did something then it was a mistake- an accident. _Lethallin_ , do I _frighten_ you?"

"I do not understand." She was anxious and afraid. Her disturbed emotions were fraying wildly at her constitution. "You have not harmed me, An'eth. You have never taken steps to intimidate or control me." Her hands brushed up through his hair and down, sliding down behind his ears and across his throat. The affectionate intention behind her caress was understood but found no resonance with him. The sensation was pleasant. "You are distressed, but I do not know the reason why."

"Did I hurt you when you were sick?" She pleaded and he did not understand the necessity of it. He was not alarmed; and thus he did not require pleading to maintain his focus on her.

"I cannot recall your immediate presence for the duration of my illness." He answered. "If you were present and I have forgotten it, then please do not allow it to reflect negatively on your efforts."

"But you were _scared_." Her tears were unnecessary, and her statement was incorrect.

"I am tranquil, An'eth. I an incapable of experiencing or expressing fear."

"I know that- I _know_ , but you were _saying things_ and I-"

"You are distressed and weeping, An'eth." He interrupted her because her breaths had grown shallow, her voice becoming increasingly high and whittled with hysteria. "This is not as I have come to know you. You must make an effort to calm yourself. If I am able to assist you then please permit me to do so."

" _The Warden Commander-_ " She gasped, hands clinging to his robes.

"An'eth." He did not know-

" _Hold me-_ " This he knew. This he had done before, although never with her in a state of such outright distress.

He had sat with her on nights not long after his arrival at Vigil's Keep and let her lean her head on his shoulder as she spoke of her Clan and her mother and the places she had been, the people she missed, and her reasons for joining the Grey Wardens.

He had been aware of her aiding him on the long journey to Redcliffe last year, as a part of the Warden Commander's army that had besieged and ultimately destroyed Redcliffe Castle. She had kept watch by his fire, helped him find shelter from the foul weather, and treated him with her company and kindness both during and after the war. She had ensured his needs were met while away from Vigil's Keep, both in physical terms of food and rest, as well as professional needs such as simply having the materials necessary to fulfill his obligations to the Grey Wardens while on the road.

He held her now and she wept openly against him. He did not understand, and he need not do so. She asked only that he hold her and Jylan did as much now. He wrapped an arm around her trembling shoulders and the other around her waist, her hand crawling up that same arm and clinging under his shoulder. He held firmly, ensured his embrace would not slip, and kept his head inclined so when she pressed her forehead to him it touched his chin and jaw, a sign of refuge. An emotional investment was not required so long as he was physically present.

" _Ar lath ma,_ " she gasped, and at first he did not know the words. _"Ar lath ma, vhenan. Ir abelas, Jylan, ar lath ma…_ " _I love you, I love you my heart. Forgive me, I love you_.

This distress was his fault. The revelation was disappointing, but not entirely unforeseen.

"An'eth…"

"I know you're tranquil…" She whimpered the words in her softest voice, reigning in the worst of her emotions. "But if you weren't… is there any way that you-?"

"Your question is the same as asking a blind man to choose a favourite colour, or the deaf to sing a song they do not know." It would not do for her to dwell in misunderstanding and delusion. He was tranquil. He did not let go of her, but he would not answer a call he could not feel.

"Do I frighten you?"

"I am as incapable of recognizing fear as I am of reciprocating love, An'eth. You hurt yourself with this endeavor, and that is a grave misfortune." She ignored his statement and he felt her press her face close and warm against him. She took a breath at his throat, and then spoke again.

"Do I remind you of your time in the Circle?"

"No." She was calmer, but not yet herself. He raised his hand from her shoulder and gathered her red hair with his fingers, brushing it away from her throat and down. It was soothing when his own hair was touched, he intended to pass on a similar sense of security. "It would be a strange connection to form as you are unlike any member of the factions from Kinloch Hold."

"Did I hurt you? Have I ever, _ever_ hurt you? Tell me, Jylan."

"No, An'eth. I cannot recall any incident wherein I have been harmed by your presence."

She slipped her arms around him and hugged him tightly. He had received many hugs today. They were pleasant.

"I love you… Are you going to send me away from you for it? Tell me to leave you alone?"

This question, unlike the others, he considered at length before answering.

"If it would expedite the process by which you are relieved of this affection for me, then I would suggest such a course, yes." She held him tighter, he felt her anxiety rise again. "However, as long as you remain cognizant of the fact that I am unable to engage with or support your emotional needs, and you are also able to spare yourself unnecessary heartache over the matter, then no. Ultimately, An'eth, it is you who must make such a decision for yourself, as I have no viable role to play in whichever choice you make." He would simply remain as he was: tranquil, and apart.

They remained standing there for some time together. Quietly. He stroked her hair again, intending to impart a sense of calm upon her. It was unclear how effective his efforts were.

"I love you, Jylan…"

"I am sorry, An'eth."


	13. Scratching

**Wait for It, Unsteady, Castle.**

* * *

 ** _Echoes of Arlathan_**

Scratching

Morrigan was upset about something. Soren noticed it immediately and long before he could become worried or upset over it, he was just quietly intrigued. Few things bothered her in a way that would make her become quiet or contemplative, but that was how she held herself today for the few minutes he saw her. It caught his attention very quickly even as he went straight to other matters.

Like the chaos and calamity of his Arling. Hurricanes were not unheard of off the Amaranthine ocean but it was late in what had been a very calm season and the storm had not been expected. At least two fishing villages had been either wiped out or at least had their roads washed away, with their Bann calling for his attention to the south east of Amaranthine City.

Bann Talbind within the city was holding his own quite well, but with staggering reports of ships being lifted and thrown like toys into the warehouse district. His letters had a keen edge of hysteria rubbed over them, giving his correspondence a tendency to read as follows: _'the matter is under control even as THERE ARE SUNKEN SHIPS IN THE HARBOUR SEND HELP I expect the restorations to take no more than another week WHICH IS WHEN THE ROADS MIGHT LOOK LIKE ROADS AGAIN NOT RIVERS YOUR GRACE DO SOMETHING, cordially yours, Bann Talbind of Amaranthine City.'_

Soren dispatched letters to Denerim and Highever with news of the storm's strike, marshalled the Silver Order and sent two companies to the afflicted shoreline to scout and lend aid. Nathaniel organized a scouting party of Grey Wardens and took Mahanon with him, the other Mage's abilities likely to be a strong asset on the storm-beaten coast. Oghren oversaw additional patrols of the Pilgrim's Way to ensure travellers caught in the squall's wake had found shelter. Over all, Vigil's Keep armed a quick and appropriate response to the crisis.

That competence gave Soren the freedom to address his Mistress's mood.

Was the eluvian workshop comfortably heated? Yes it was. Was she delivered a portion of hot mulled wine for the chill? Yes she was. Did she partake of her lunch that was sent to the apartments? Clearly so. When he was given enough time to actually return and see her, did he make that effort? Of course.

"Does my Lady weep for my storm-blown subjects?" He entered the workshop and she didn't notice him. He approached her, spoke to her, and slipped his arms around her waist from behind and _this_ earned him some attention. "Or are there matters further north that rest heavy in her heart?" He kissed the back of her neck, lingering there with a warm nudge of his face. She brought her hands up over his where they were linked in front of her, pulling her from the assorted runes and maps spread on the workshop table before her. He didn't look at them: if she wanted his help with Tevinter then Morrigan would ask, anything else would involve prying.

"Neither," she admitted quietly, leaning back against him briefly before she pulled away and turned. He let her go, pleased when all she did was turn to face him and lean back on the table, her hands plucking at him to ensure he remained at hand. This wasn't a matter of business then, she wanted his presence and Soren was happy to oblige her.

A kiss? He moved just to come closer to her but Morrigan cupped his face, as sure a sign as anything, so of course he kept coming and let his lips tilt to fit just right against hers. She breathed deeply and brushed her warm hands through his hair, kicked a foot behind his leg to coax him closer still. Did she just want his attention? Had he been stingy with it?

"Talk to me?" He murmured to her lips, hands cupping her waist. No whispers, he wasn't shy, just quiet to respect her mood.

"Come to bed with me." A very agreeable idea, but despite his smile that wasn't what he was here for.

"Certainly, but talk to me first." He kissed her again, held her to him. The idea was no more off the table than Morrigan herself was. He stroked a thumb down the edge of her bodice, strummed his fingertips at the laces of her gown. "My Lady doesn't grow sombre over cold bedsheets. Morrigan, talk to me."

"I am troubled, leave it at that."

"Then hide it better," he chastised her with a smile. From her mouth to her throat, his lips left caresses on soft warm skin. His thumb hooked around the silk ribbons holding the carved amber pieces across her chest, moving them aside just to give him space to mouth and please her. She curled around him and her hand in his hair coaxed him to continue, working steadily towards her suggestion. He ended with a soft kiss at the hollow of her throat, and looked up with his lips brushing hers again. "If you don't then I'm going to take it to mean it's something between us." He had her smiling now, warm and smug. Soren knew he did not have to say what came next, but he did so anyways:

"If this is still about that wedding idea then tell me, Morrigan, so we can settle this."

Her smile froze, the languid warmth spreading through her limbs tensed up and cooled. When she imitated intimacy again with a hand brushing up his shoulder to his face, it was thin and false.

"It is not the wedding." She told him and he couldn't tell if she was lying. "It is not the wedding _itself_ , Soren. It is you."

"Me?" He did not manage a genuine smile with his question, so admitted it was a front and let it fall.

"Yes." He gave her space, it was not intended to be much but she stood properly and he was left with only a hand on her waist, and then gave up even that. "It is you, and your Circle, and your lies about it."

He laughed at her.

"Oh- you're _serious?_ " He kept laughing, it didn't have to be funny: her hurt look was plenty to keep him going. "Lady Morrigan is going to hold _me_ to task for lying? My love we both know I haven't told the truth about something since I could tell the difference. Put the Circle from your mind: they're gone and you never had a care for them anyways."

"You demanded I speak to you and I am doing so." Her voice was tight, dark lips pulled thin with offense. Let her be offended, it was just a front for her own embarrassment. "You will _listen_ -"

"I asked you to speak to me of sensible things, as I assumed those were all that could upset you." He interrupted her with a harder voice this time, his laughter gone. "But _my_ Circle? Seven years after its Annulment, Morrigan, and _now_ you want me to talk about it? That chapter closed years ago, now ignore it as you have since then." He was not going to humour this sudden interest of hers. Coming from Morrigan it was actually offensive.

"I know you've been lying."

"I know you have black hair." Her face reeled with disgust at his attitude. "Oh, are we not stating the obvious today? Forgive me, dear, you've got me in a panic: that I should be caught in a _lie!_ " He would frustrate her, she would walk away, and in a few days when her temper cooled this would be done. "How can I ever admit that Irving used to pour honey in my hair and unleash bees on me as part of my training?" Lie. "And how he would forbid me to eat for days just to watch me struggle!" Truth. "That the Templars used to make us walk around stark naked for no reason?" Lie. "I've repressed and repressed but just cannot forget the dreaded communal toilets every Apprentice got pushed into at least once!" _Lie._

" _Cease!"_ She shouted at him, flinging her arms about like a child in a tantrum. "Soren, I will have you speak seriously!"

Seriously? Yes, with _grave_ sincerity now, he nodded to her, he raised his hands to parlay. Enough of this. He spoke truthfully.

" _Fine_ , Morrigan, we will do this your way." He told her, measuring his voice out even and controlled again. "I don't know how I've hidden it from you for so long, but I will not keep lying: all the toes of my left foot were eaten off by fish in Lake Calenhad and I wear a wooden prosthetic to hide the deformity." He almost smiled through that one, but lied just the same.

She stared at him, she didn't believe a single word he'd said and that was the beauty of it. She didn't have any right to look at him and pin her melancholy on _him_ and _his Circle_ after fifteen years of ignoring where he'd found his start in life. Better she squawk at him for drinking Darkspawn blood in the Joining at Ostagar. Better she cry out over how he had not run to the Inquisition's aid at their inception.

Instead, the stupid witch curled her tinted lips into her mouth and watched him. She took a shallow breath, cast her eyes from him, and Soren felt himself quickly bristle with alarm. She would _not_.

She drew one arm up around herself, lifted the curled fingers of her hand to her lips. Her next breath caught. _No._

"What are you playing at?" His voice surprised him, it was harsher than he meant it and she turned further away from him. " _Enough_ , you will not pretend tears over this."

"I will do as I _please!"_ She was loud and angry with him when she spat the venomous words, but those were tears. She was in tears. Morrigan was crying. No- she was not supposed to cry. She shed tears over nothing and even when the unthinkable happened her _voice_ \- "I _know_ your body, you bastard!" Thick and blubbering, that wasn't what she was supposed to sound like. If she wept it was from her eyes not from her chest, not squeezing and sucking through her like a cancer, this wasn't-

"I know _every_ scar and mark upon you!" She was on him and she was angry, rushing into his space and grabbing at his sleeves to twist and shove him, jabbing her fingers at him, chasing him back. "Every darkspawn blade! Every childling's claws! Every wolf and sylvan and every one of your own reckless mistakes! You will _not_ mock me when I find the same scars on your back cutting up a _Tranquil_ from the same Circle!" She howled at him and he backed away from it. He didn't engage, he didn't yell back, he didn't know what the hell was _happening_ -

"' _I was different'_ you always purr like it's a lie worth listening to!" She railed and screamed and chased after him. "' _The Templars never touched me_ 'you boast like it was an achievement! _'Kirkwall was the exception!_ ' ' _The Tranquil brought it on themselves!_ ' _'The Templars were to protect us!_ ' _'The sisters never noticed me!_ ' Liar! _Liar!"_ She grabbed him and she shook him and then she shoved him away from her. None of it hurt but he was too _startled_ to do anything to defend himself. "You will _not_ mock my love for you- you will not _disrespect me_ when I stand at your ungrateful side! Weave whatever lies warm your cragged and bitter heart, but admit when your ruse is doneand _tell me the truth!_ "

He was shocked by her, jarred by her yelling and screaming and _weeping_. The rest of it he could have taken in stride except for that. Why in Andraste's name were there tears? He wanted out of this and he knew he had taken missteps with her- he didn't want to make it worse he wanted it to _stop_ and for this to be _over_. Soren went back through what she'd screamed at him and fought to find a way out.

"You're going this far over something so over and done that the Inquisition which _stopped_ the war has already crumbled!" Scars. She'd opened this with scars- and that _fucking Tranquil_. "My back? My Circle? Things you have _never_ cared about! The Blight treated me worse than whatever you're after with this. Where did you think those marks came from? A fall down the _stairs?_ The Circle was as I told you once upon a time ago, and you never bothered to ask me _once_ since then!"

"It was _you_ who always played these matters off as irrelevant!" She swiped one hand over her cheek to smear away the tears. Good! Let her feel shame for resorting to them! "That how the Circles treated you was nothing of consequence!"

"Because it _is_ nothing!" He shouted back. "The girl who sweeps our ashes out takes the same rod I did as a child! I lived where there were clothes and food and beds for everyone, that's more than too many in Thedas can boast, Morrigan! Control yourself!"

"Tell me the truth of your damned Circle," She hissed at him, but there were more tears and he would not do _anything_ for her so long as they remained. "How you were treated, _tell me._ "

"Better than in your damned swamp," he bit back. His anger was burning and he took it tightly in his hands, directing it exactly where it was meant to go. "Better than Fort _Drakon_ , or is that what you've suddenly deluded yourself into believing? That we were each shoved into an iron barred cage, splashed with gruel once a day, and dragged over the rack at the Templars' slightest fancy?"

"If not the Templars' fancy then the Chantry's!" She shouted, approaching him again but this time he took a swipe at the hand raised to point and jab at him. No. He would not be chased like a mouse into a corner! "This is why you've kept Circle Mages and Tranquil from Vigil's Keep all these years, because any _one_ of them would be able to tell what life was really like in that spire!"

"Chores, lessons, and prayers." He snarled. "Over and over in an endless cycle that would have driven _you_ to leap from the tower windows and _'dash myself upon the rocks'_ , as you once so poetically _spat_ to me!" He remembered that. He remembered her words. He remembered what she'd said about the Circle and its halls the only time he had dared let her near the island. A pity on him when he'd played the fool, worried and wondered after his Chasind lover's safety when petitioning the Mages for aid against the Blight, only to have nothing but filth and poison babble from her lips until he'd cast her away and refused to speak to her again until Uldred's corpse had gone cold.

"Tell me the _truth!_ "

She'd hated the Circles. She'd hated _his_ Circle. She'd mocked Irving to Soren's face, spoken poorly of Wynne without reproach, scoffed at his rank, dismissed his interests in the College, derided the Harrowing, and looked askance on a thousand years of magical tradition. Morrigan _hated_ the Circles of Magi and Soren felt his outrage ignite and enflame her image because _how dare she_ turn to _him_ as her next great attempt to destroy the cornerstone of who _he was_.

Hateful things filled his mouth. Wretched insults crawled and stuffed up his throat. Betrayal and pain scalded his palms looking for release that would make her reel back and flee from him. She would not attack his Circle she would not attack _him_ she would not take these liberties against his pride and walk over him like some know-nothing piece of chantry chattel!

"Your place was never in the Circle." He knew the taint was in his eyes. He knew the air was raw with tension on the veil from magic he could have taken _so easily_ into his arms and struck out with. He felt the spirits and he felt his anger twisting them, corrupting them, felt Rage and Hunger and Pride ravenously licking at the far edges of his mind. "Your interests there are nil. Whatever you're searching for, you will not find it here with me, Morrigan. No Apostate Sorceress is going to twist _my_ memories and turn the home I lost to revolutionaries into some wall of shame to mock and belittle in my hearing! I have had _enough_ , this is uncalled for, and we will not speak of it further."

"Don't you dare hide from me again you _coward-_ " He had not moved, he would not. He let his body language be the blade that cut down her rebuttal. He even ignored the false _again_ she threw at him for a rise.

"Choose something else," he challenged her. "I'm not leaving until you start making sense again."

She was quiet. She watched him. Soren was still angry and the taint was hurting his eyes: it was prickling and gnawing hard at the nerve behind each one, threading like a harsh rash up and down his ears before brazing the back of his neck. It hurt, but it was superficial. He made no effort to pull the effects from his eyes, capable of letting her know he was still angry with her without actively working against her.

Morrigan's tears had stopped but there was a shielded, hesitant darkness crossing her face. She was hurt and he refused to feel sympathy, he wanted her to _move on_.

The question she asked him was stupid, but it was different and that was what he'd demanded:

"Do you love me?" He knew it was her way of repairing the damage of their argument, but it annoyed him that she had to reach _so deeply_ into the core of their relationship after a fight that had only cracked the surface. Stupid question.

"More than I know what to do with, most days." What mattered was that he answered her. This, he would never lie about. "Frustrating as you are, never doubt that you are my heart, Morrigan."

He approached her and stopped when she didn't move. Her reserved gaze was searching him for something and he waited. The taint was slowly retreating, the ghostly light from his eyes fading and the reckless pain in his skin easing away. She hesitated and asked another question. He had none for her, he was offended, not hurt.

"Do you trust me?" She asked.

"I trust you to always act in accordance with your own nature," this was a more complicated question, but just as easily answered. "And I trust myself to know what that means, whatever the context. If something you don't give an honest damn about comes between you and something you want, Morrigan, then I know you won't care who you hurt or what it takes to reach your goal. I love you, yes, and I trust you, but that doesn't mean you won't turn around and hurt me when you feel like it." He hurt her again by saying that, he saw the flash of it and the recoil through her shoulders when she edged a foot away from him.

"I would not do so recklessly, Soren." Her words were too soft. "I love you too deeply to-"

"You just did," he interrupted. "With all of this, you just did, and you always do." He hurt her. Like tiny cuts between her fingers, he was making her sting. "Don't talk to me about the Circles, Morrigan. Your hatred always twists what you say, and it makes you deaf to whatever I try to tell you. If you want someone to dig at then go get your Tranquil friend in the lower levels. Or wait for Warden Sephri to come back and spit poison with her in your spare time: she should be on her way home from Antiva by now. Just leave me out of it, I have enough to handle in a day without trying to correct your ignorance at the same time."

"I…" By hurting her he'd humbled her. Neither part was something he enjoyed, but she lowered her eyes and softened her voice and she was humble. "It… was not my intention to hurt you, Soren. I am _worried_ for you. You have not been yourself these past days, and neither Zevran nor I have yet discovered a reason for it."

They did not trade apologies often. Soren didn't say anything as she proceeded to explain herself, holding his comments back because if he dismissed her too roughly she would take hurt in an even further manner and he didn't _want_ that.

"You and the Tranquil here at Vigil's Keep both bear scars from your Apprenticeship in the Circle of Magi," she continued. "It was not a similarity I was expecting. I wondered if it were not something related to the fact that you are both elves, but he gave no indication of that being the case."

" _All_ Apprentices were beaten, Morrigan." He had _just said_ he did not want to discuss the Circles with her but if she could keep that soft, modest voice of hers then he would humour her _just this once_. "Just like the Templars were strictly disciplined, or the Initiates were given penance. Some more than others, and some hardly ever. Connor was a pious boy from a powerful noble house so I doubt he was ever hit hard enough to leave scars. I was taken much younger than most, so I learned how _not_ to get the rod after taking too many hits just for my age. Ansera wasn't even a good enough Apprentice to make it to his Harrowing. You can't compare these things when every Apprentice was different. Are you really trying to say I've been having trouble sleeping because Revered Mother Senna shaved my head when I was eight?"

"Did she?" Morrigan's hesitation was the only reason he answered, but he made his lips curl with a false bit of smugness.

"No, it was the Templars who cut our hair when the dorms needed delousing." Senna was the one who- "Enough, Morrigan. We'll speak no more of this." He held a hand out to her. Let this be over.

She hesitated, he saw it, but then yes: she took his hand. She was watching his arm and then looked at him, hiding her hurts and squeezing his fingers tightly in a gesture he mimicked before tugging her closer. Enough. No more fighting. Their noses touched and he coaxed her into his arms, letting her fall close to him in a warm embrace. This was better, this would sooth her and by extension calm him down as well.

"You and Zevran worry because you love me." He murmured to her, his eyes closed, her warmth a soothing and welcome sensation against him. "Thank you…"

Morrigan didn't answer him, but she brought her hands up and cupped his face, brushing her thumbs over his cheeks and cradling him like that for several long seconds. Her breaths were not each even or steady, she was hurt and she was upset and there was concern wrapped with worry tying knots in her heart. He held her a little tighter and she sighed heavily over him, sliding her hands down and twisting her arms around his shoulders to hug him close, their faces still touching and his eyes shut to help focus on her.

He wanted these fights and blow-ups to _stop_. Her arms circling him and the tension easing from her shoulders spoke of similar relief in her, and that was good. Enough of this. He wanted her to enjoy her time at home, not feel burdened during this precious window of theirs. Their fight this evening had been unfortunate, he didn't want a repeat of it.

Morrigan took a quick breath and then spoke.

"Go get your staff." She pulled away just to dip her face close and catch his lips in a brief kiss.

"Hmm?" Brief, it was over before he could gather a reply.

"And a warm cloak, your warmest one."

"Are we going somewhere?"

"Yes, through the eluvian." The day had officially wound down by now; he was unlikely to be missed before tomorrow morning. "Just for a few hours, but it will be cold."

"Anything I should expect?" He asked, but he wasn't protesting the decision. Morrigan curled her bottom lip into her mouth briefly, her teeth tugging at it before she gave him a taunting little smile and stepped away from him, their hands trailing together before the embrace fell.

"Something _fun_. Do we have any lyrium?" Lyrium implied a _completely_ different kind of fun than what Morrigan had alluded to much earlier.

"Cabinet to your right, you have the key." Soren went to go fetch his cloak and staff. His armour might have been a good idea, but would take too long. The travel kit from his jaunt to Amaranthine was still resting over the back of a chair in their bedroom, so he belted that on over his robe before taking up his iron and bloodstone staff and swinging a heavy bearskin cloak around his shoulders.

He was on his way _back_ to the workshop when Zevran finally poked his head into the corridor from the salon.

"Thank the _Maker_ you two never get into such fights when Kieran is around," he swore. "You're smiling so you made up, good! Play nicely now, I don't want to go chasing you through the Crossroads again."

" _Yes, mother_." Soren taunted, "We'll be back before dawn, I hope."

"Happy hunting, blow Morrigan a kiss for me." Soren scoffed at him, shouldering open the workshop door.

" _No._ "

Zevran stuck his tongue out and returned to the salon.

Soren replaced the wards guarding the workshop against unwanted interlopers.

And Morrigan led him with a smile and a hand through the mirror towards something _fun_.

* * *

 **He's such a dick tho, my warden.**


	14. A Family of Names

**_Echoes of Arlathan_**

A Family of Names

Jeevan had picked up some weird-ass habits in the Circle of Magi. Or maybe it was his guild Samar was supposed to blame for being woken up before the Maker Himself in that black little cell his brother called his own.

Samar had expected to sleep with his blanket on the floor; Jeevan had expected him to sleep on the bed. They'd compromised and crowded one another on the thin mattress instead. Warm, that was the most important thing, warm and comfortable and trying the fastest thing to try and break down how hard it was to talk to his brother. When you only had one room for sleeping and eight heads to lay down, you learned how to get and stay cozy with one another. It wasn't hard to go back to. Samar went to bed with his back cramped to the fortress wall and a quiet fear in his blood that Jeevan would lay flat and still as the dead all night, same as he did when awake, but a few hours later his heart started beating comfortably again.

He woke up, needed nothing but a little stretch of his leg and a shift on the thin pillow, and found Jeevan practically grappling with him under the warm quilt. Arms and legs going everywhere and twisted around Samar so tight he couldn't have gotten out of bed if he'd tried. Same as when they'd been kids.

He hugged his brother back in the dark, hid his nose from the cold air of the cell, and went back to sleep. He smelled like family and fragrant elfroot.

Jeevan woke up first, which shouldn't have surprised him, but Samar got the rude awakening of the hug he'd been twisted around firmly letting go and getting away from him. It was black as Maferath's Heart in the room and not even the birds would be up yet, what the fuck was he doing?

" _Hey_ ,"

"You may return to sleep."

"Where're you going?"

"To work." No. _No._ This is not what shore leave was supposed to be like…

Samar stayed in the bed. Jeevan had a good bed, he'd give him that much: the mattress was stuffed with wool and firmly packed straw, warm and comfortable. The linen sheets were good and long, the wool blanket was big too, and the quilt on top added weight the thinner layers lacked. Vigil's Keep looked after its servants, even the elven ones, and he dropped his face in the warmth until a sound caught his attention and made him look up.

"What're you doing _now?_ "

"Three sets of seven." Push-ups? Apothecaries did push-ups? Samar had to count out three sets of seven to get twenty-one. Apothecaries did _weak_ push-ups.

"I can do more than that," he boasted around a yawn.

"Your profession lends itself to more intensive displays of strength and endurance." When he started pulling sit-ups in the dark, Samar groaned and pulled himself out of bed. He settled next to him, scratching his back and stifling another yawn.

"How many?"

"Three sets of ten."

"I can do five."

"It would not be unreasonable." C'mon, joke with him, boast with him, _do something…_

"You're not gonna light a candle are you?"

"It is not normally required."

Getting dressed in the dark with his brother was weird, alright? It was just weird. The sun wasn't coming up so there was no way for him to fucking _see_.

"What're you doing _now?_ " And he kept being _so quiet_ about it. Stop being creepy!

"Arranging my hair."

"Jeevan, candle. For fuck's sake, light a candle. You know your room in the dark, I-" He knocked something that fell and made a _fucking awful_ noise in the pitch black and yeah, he swore. He yelled a little bit. Fuck this _in_ - _the_ - _dark_ bullshit.

"That was the brazier." Which explained the smell of ash in the air now.

"I'll clean it up _if you light a fucking candle_."

His brother finally lit a candle for him and the dim red glow was enough for Samar to find his shoes and a clean shirt for the day. He had a trunk of warm clothes in Gwaren but they weren't doing him much good in Amaranthine right now. A single wool tunic that had been at the very bottom of his bag for the last eight months came out and he stuffed it over his head, lacing up a set of hide vambraces just to give his forearms a bit of cover. At least the workshop would be _warm_.

Samar just followed him around. It was like being on a ship for the first time only much bigger and way quieter. They went straight to his workshop and fine, work first then eat, but all Jeevan did was strike a fire, fill a cauldron with water, and then they immediately left again.

"The Seneschal should be about his business by first bell."

"Well there're no windows down here so I don't know when that'll be."

"After deliveries." Deliveries? He'd thought Jeevan worked as a chemist, not a runner.

Ooh, hot bread, nevermind. Fresh bread. The kitchen hall they entered wasn't warm but it was on its way there. Servants and working folk were milling about in a sleepy way, some taking a cup of soup or tea with them as they took their portion of the morning meal. Yesterday Samar had shared a cup of thick creamy stew with lumps of potato and carrot and beans in it with his brother, the soup drizzled all over with thick drippings from the meats served to the Grey Wardens upstairs.

Samar was noticed for being different and unfamiliar, so he stuck to his brother's side. He touched nothing, took nothing, and just watched his brother go about his morning routine.

Today Jeevan took his allotment of bread, filled it with a generous smear of butter and a spoonful of apple preserve, and after letting the bun melt the dreamy delights inside its hot crust he tore it in half and gave Samar a chunk of it. It wasn't a lot of food but it was _good food_ , to go with the good bed and the good clothes he wore. Shit, this wasn't the brother Samar should have been worried about. Jeevan found the flaw in a small yellow apple and with a sharp twist the fruit came apart in two even halves for them to share. There was still attention on Samar's back, but no one said anything as they left the dining hall.

Samar noticed his brother just carried his food rather than eat and walk at the same time, but didn't question it. They went back to the workshop and _here_ Jeevan ate, methodical and slow as anything, and started checking a little book and filling a wide basket with blocks of stuff, and bottles of other stuff, and jars of still more stuff. This was what he'd meant by deliveries.

"Can I ask why this stuff gets delivered instead of people just coming to pick it up?"

"As I am alone in the workshop until Warden Guerrin's return from the Anderfels, it is more manageable to arrange morning deliveries than to send word throughout the keep when requisitions are filled. Or, alternatively, to permit denizens of the Vigil to repeatedly intrude and demand their items."

"They get them when they get them."

"Yes."

Okay fine, but that basket was clearly heavy and Samar considered taking it from him, but then it would be just as hard for _him_ to lug around. Their first stop was the Kennelmaster where Jeevan handed over a jar of something, and Samar was too interested in the dogs to mind the stilted conversation. These were _mabari._

Real, actual mabari owned by the _Grey Wardens_ _of Ferelden_. Of course the Wardens needed servants the same as any other fortress, but to think that _his brother_ got to work for them. And these dogs were big monsters too, their kennels were as tall as Samar's chest and warm and dry inside. Strong as a horse and twice as smart, teeth like meat tenderizers and paws big enough to fill Samar's boots. Sure, they reeked, but Samar had dealt with whale intestines putrefying on his deck before: dog stink was nothing.

There was a great big black one with amber eyes that watched him steadily, and a sandy yellow one who was more interested in rubbing her back on the floor of her kennel than in paying him any mind. Then a grey one who was passed out asleep and was noticeably smaller and younger than the rest, and finally- woah, excited! This one was up and awake, wagging his back end with its stubby tail and all but grinning at Samar from behind the bars.

"Good to have you back on your feet just the same, Compounder. Here he is, then." Huh? Samar got out of the Kennelmaster's way when the human appeared behind him, retreating back to his brother's side as the man rattled a set of keys, cooed to the excited and absolutely overjoyed hound in the kennel being unlocked, and then let him out. "No one in the Keep is happier than Dirth here."

Dirth the dog came prancing out of his kennel and threw his front paws up, planting them hard on Jeevan's hip and snuffing at him, wiggling his hind end like he could hover if he tried hard enough. He slobbered and he barked and he made a big fuss, and Jeevan's only reaction was to awkwardly get a hand on the hound's head and push him down on all four paws again.

"Hey, he's just being friendly," Samar cooed, coming to the mabari's defense as the dog scurried around Jeevan's feet and circled him twice, looking for more than a push on the head. "That your Warden Guerrin's dog?"

"Nay. Warden Guerrin's is the young grey behind you." The Kennelmaster gave the answer and Samar looked again at the sleeping pup in the kennel he'd already visited. "She was but a bit of fuzz when he left this summer, much too small to go with him. Near as I can tell Dirth might be her sire though, since he and Laklah the black one all came from House Guerrin's kennels after the war."

"Wait, so- _no._ " There was no way. The dog sitting and leaning and staring adoringly up at his blank-eyed brother was _absolutely not_ \- "Andraste's Flaming Sword, you're an elf! You're no Warden- how in the Six Seas did you get a _mabari?"_

"An unwise act on behalf of Lady Rowan Guerrin, which went uncorrected by her brother." Jeevan actually sounded _upset_ for once. It was there in the very _kernel_ of his words. "It is now irreversible."

"I asked myself the same thing every day for a month!" The Kennelmaster was laughing, but it had a good sound to it. "He's imprinted though, sure as anything. Don't be so hard on yourself, Compounder, you take good care of him."

"Good day, Kennelmaster." That was as close to saying _'shut up_ ' as Samar had seen him come.

They left and Samar was enthralled with the hound- a _mabari!_ A real and raw mabari! A war-hound of legend, from a proper noble breeder! And Jeevan _didn't like it!?_

"I would encourage you to engage with the animal for the duration of your stay at Vigil's Keep." Jeevan told him in the same low, even voice, but with a smart bit of attitude added to it. "As I am incapable of providing the proper emotional stimulation required by a mabari, the task of enriching the animal's day to day interactions often falls to others. As we are brothers, there may exist a chance that the imprint will transfer between us."

"As much as I wish that was true, you're off your rocker if you don't want this thing." Who wouldn't want a _mabari_ for the Maker's sake!? Samar turned to the hound that was trotting along right as rain in the dim dawn glow behind them and got its attention. " _Who's a good boy? Who's a big scary war dog? It's you! Yes it's you!_ Haha! Look at him run around!" What an excitable thing!

"I am aware." _Stick in the mud_.

The morning tumbled down after that, unfortunately. The mason grumbled that the glue had taken too long to arrive and he'd already ordered another batch from Amaranthine City, but he took this order anyways. The clerk at the inn rolled her eyes while asking if Jeevan's fever was gone, took the ink bottles, and had nothing else to say before they left. The baker's wife took two bottles of witch hazel and then gave Jeevan an absolutely _wretched_ tearing down for how late it was and how long she'd waited and how the colour wasn't what she'd wanted and- and Samar very nearly closed her own front door on her. _Wow_.

The Seamstress though. The _Seamstress_. Shit, Dirth put his stubby tail between his legs before they even got to the slumping stone wall around the modest property, and anywhere a mabari refused to tread Samar _did not_ want to go. Between the dog's behaviour and Samar's raised nerves, Jeevan actually stopped at the gate and told him to just stay at the fence.

"What's wrong with this house?" He asked, because what the fuck.

"Mistress Correlay has a rudimentary knowledge of dyes and dye-making," Jeevan explained in dead, monotone measure. "But a poor memory for which herbs reveal which colours. Therefore, she will make requisitions for dyes based on the name of the plant but expect other colours to appear in the yarns and threads. I have attempted to compile sample boards so that she may simply select the colour, but this method offended her: she disapproved of the notion that an elven apothecary should know more of dye-making than a seamstress. It is an ongoing point of contention."

"So what's going to happen today?"

"She is going to receive a portion of Amaranth dye, which is maroon in colour, and insist that Amaranth yields a green dye correctly associated with heatherfrond."

"Okay and if you just made her heatherfond dye and _said_ it was Amaranth to get her off your back?" Jeevan was quiet.

"I had not considered that option." Well he _should have._ "It has been my intention to wait for Warden Guerrin to return to Vigil's Keep and correct her behaviour. She is merely belligerent, not violent."

"Okay." No, not okay. They weren't waiting for this Guerrin guy to come back from the far side of Andraste's ass. "Is she human?"

"Yes."

"Then give me your robe."

"I do not understand."

"Gimmie your fucking robe." Jeevan didn't move. "Look, I might not be as young as you or Rian but I'll bet half the humans in this place can't tell two elves apart anyways. Robe. Off. Now."

"You intend to trick the seamstress." Jeevan put his basket down and the dog was watching them with a tilted head. He undid the buttons on his robe and- oh, it was two robes. Okay. Give him both then.

"I'm gonna put the fear of the Maker in her is what I'm gonna do." The white robe was a bit tight in the arms and the blue one was _really_ tight in the chest, but he flung his cape around Jeevan's shoulders when he looked a little cold standing there in the slowly rising dawn. _"C'mere, boy…_ " Dirth gave him a straight look that was a bit eerie for a dog, but Jeevan shooed the animal off and Samar pulled the hood of the blue robe up over his head.

Samar made sure he wasn't smiling or doing anything stupid with his face, heaved a soft sigh to look just bored at everything, and knocked on the door. He took the dye, nicely labelled, and when the door opened there was a busybody-looking human woman with a frazzled red braid who scowled at him.

"Wait here." She clicked her tongue at him and Samar was quiet, he nodded his head, he stared at the rushes on her floor and saw the corner of a busy loom resting in the middle of her home. The woman came back again after a quick minute and handed him a wrapped bundle, took her bottles of dye, and said: _"_ Maker go with you. Take better care of yourself," before shutting the door again.

Well fuck.

' _I am a bad person and Andraste knows all my shitty sins_.' Samar went back to where his brother was waiting around the bend in the lane. Jeevan was looking at him and only him, like he was almost eager for what Samar had to report.

"So, uh, she was actually kinda nice." He admitted, bashful, sheepish, and feeling generally shitty. He held out the wrapped something and put the basket down, undoing the toggles on the robe to give the warm wool back. "That's for you."

"This is a portion of cured ham." A significant chunk too, at least a few days' worth for one person. Fuck. Samar was a bad person. "Perhaps at the next delivery she will regain her more typical attitude. Or there is always the possibility that she noticed that you were not me."

"Nah, she told me to take care of my health." He tossed the blue robe over the fence, pulling off the white one and handing it back to Jeevan, who slipped his arms back through the garment and did the buttons up while waiting for the blue layer. "Totally elf-blind. Where else do we have to go?"

"Another two bottles of witch hazel for the house at the end of the lane, and then to the midwife with several elfroot poultices." They started walking, and it wasn't until they'd finished handing over the bottles to an old woman who was perhaps the most pleasant person on the run, that Samar finally gave his brother a sideways look in the cresting dawn and called him out.

"You were actually gonna let me fuck with the seamstress." The fortress was definitely waking up, but Samar wouldn't have called it _awake_ just yet. Dewy grass and stones gave the air a crisp, wet smell, the sky blushed pink and orange with faint clouds. The last of the hurricane was long, long gone at last. "As in, on my first day here, you were gonna let me mess with and get in trouble with one of your patrons."

"I did not consider her a threat to you." Jeevan kept his eyes ahead on the path they were walking through the vigil, steep lanes bricked with houses and buildings, gravel that crunched under their feet and led to little yards with penned animals and damp vegetable patches. "The operation of the workshop is not reliant on her patronage specifically. Unless you carry a debilitating fear of needles or human women, the task did not seem unmanageable."

"She treats you like crap and you wanted to see me scare the pants off her." At this point if Jeevan suddenly looked at _him_ and started screaming profanities, Samar would lose more than just his pants. It would have been priceless if she'd given Samar a reason to jump at her.

"I did not want it, as want is an expression of desire." His brother corrected him and it was hard not to roll his eyes. There was _no_ spirit left in him! "However, I am unopposed to the idea of harmless trickery." -what?

"Are you serious?"

"Not gravely so, but I am being truthful." Samar stopped with a crap grin on his face again, and Jeevan stopped to check why.

"Gimmie your robe before we get to the midwife."

"No."

"You just said-!"

"You are not to prank midwife Valora under any circumstances."

"It's harmless trickery, you said so yourself!"

"And I have also stated that under no circumstances are you to prank midwife Valora." Hang on, midwife. _Midwife_. That was familiar.

"Is this the same woman who helped when you were sick?" A little thing, the old _Hamae_. Samar remembered seeing her with the Warden Commander.

"Yes." Okay, _fine_ , if it was the same woman then putting on a hood wouldn't help anyways. No messing with the midwife. "Mistress Valora is a highly respected craftswoman."

"You've been out of the alienage a bit too long if you think I'm gonna pull anything on a _Hamae_ ," Samar grumbled at him, and they continued walking.

"I do not believe I know that word."

" _Grandmother?_ C'mon! I'm not Dalish and I still know that much."

" _Hahren_ , for elder. _Lethallin_ and _Lethallan_ , for-" Oh, they were doing a vocabulary lesson now?

"Those two are _really_ Dalish. Don't think I've ever heard _Lethallin_ from a city elf." But, if they were on this topic then it was better than silence or blank staring. "What about _ma halam!_ Know that one?"

"No."

"It's fun to yell at Raiders."

"It is an insult?"

"Like a threat. _Seth'lin_ 's another good one, I like the way it rolls off the tongue."

"Perhaps you can ask Warden Athras or Warden Howe if there are more insults in the old language. They are both Dalish, as is Warden Lavellan, but he and I are not well acquainted."

"Athras is the one you met with last night, right?" The worried looking one? "Was everything alright with her?"

"The matter discussed was both unfortunate and considered private, I would prefer not to speak of it." Fair enough.

They reached the midwife's hutch and went directly inside. Introductions were made by Jeevan, who had to drink a deep cup of lemon and elfroot tea from the chair the midwife put him in. She scolded him harshly for being up and about so soon after his illness, but it wasn't mean-spirited like the baker's wife, or dismissive like the clerk at the inn.

"And you," the midwife finally turned on him, having accepted the introduction from Jeevan about him with little more than a nod. "You've not yet spoken to the Seneschal and that means you're not to take food from the keep: it's not a charity hall and Quartermaster Felsi will break your fingers if she catches you thieving. What have you eaten since arriving yesterday?"

"My brother's shared his portions with me, ma-"

" _You'd take food from a sick man?_ " She cut him quick with her tongue and then turned from them both with her hands in the air. She stomped over her rushes and muttered black things under her breath, huffing and tearing the top off a heavy woven basket sitting next to her long work table. Bits of paper and wool came out of the basket, and Jeevan voiced a small statement of protest before the terrifying _Hamae_ got him to shut up again with just a look.

"Tranquil or no, all men are idiots." Into Jeevan's basket went three hen's eggs and a portion of white cheese. Then she brought out a small pie and wrapped it in a length of brown paper, placing it next to the eggs, the seamstress' ham, and the cheese. She turned to Samar with a finger that had all the intensity and threat of a sharpened knife and wagged it harshly under his nose. "You will take _no more food_ from your brother, he is ill! He must eat! Jylan! You will eat the entire portion, _all of it_ , and I expect you to continue taking the elfroot until you are _completely_ recovered. And _finally_ , for _both of you_ ,"

She whirled herself up into a tizzy and then came down on them with a loud huff, standing between her crackling fire and the two of them with a scowl.

"Ashera or _Ansera_ , which is it?" She asked them, and her hard shell cracked a bit with a sorry frown of real concern passing over her face. "What was your father's name? Your mother's? You're both old enough and should know how important these things are!"

"The family name is Ashera, _Hamae_." Samar explained for the hundredth time, knowing full well he'd have to say it again for the Seneschal soon. "The Chantry changed both his names when they took him to the Circle, but I don't know why."

"To break the family line." Uh- she came out so easy with it, and her frown deepened noticeably as she looked at Samar, then walked to Jeevan with both her hands out to warmly cradle his face. He didn't react to the gesture but Samar was warmed by it. "In Orlais every time a slave or a servant changes noble hands they change their names, first or last or both, to make it harder for them to run away and try to find family they've been separated from. It's an old practice going back at least as far as the Fall of the Dales when the Chantry destroyed every record of elven houses and heroes to stop our people from having anything to harken back to. That's why the Dalish cling to their clans so fiercely. That's why Orlesian and Tevinter elves always have so many names: most are from their masters, but at least one will be their own."

The _Hamae_ was looking at Jeevan as she told them this, and it wasn't news really. The _Hahren_ in Gwaren had told stories like it, reminded the Alienage of what it was like living under the Orlesian occupation, what it meant to have the Hero of Ferelden come from their blood even if there was no telling what his name really was. Samar had always guessed _Soren Surana_ was just a Chantry change on what the Hero actually called himself, but that hadn't come up yet. He didn't seem like the kind of person who would have let the Chantry change his name anyways.

Jeevan though… Yeah, as much as Samar hated thinking about it, his brother hadn't had much choice to fight back. He didn't even have his smile anymore; it was no surprise they'd taken his name too.

"My husband's name was Pierre," Valora murmured softly, brushing a few wayward strands of Jeevan's hair back behind his hear. "But when the Orlesians were finally driven out of Ferelden by King Maric he let us call him Vessan again, his given name."

"Vessa is named after her grandfather." Jeevan stated in his dull voice, and Valora nodded before kissing the top of his head and letting go of him. It was nice to know there was at least one person in this keep who was sweet on him.

"It's up to you whether you use your Chantry name or your family name, Compounder." She explained kindly. "I assume you'll use the Chantry one with the humans and when doing business, but if you want to share your real one then I'd encourage you to do so."

"If it will provide you with emotional comfort, Mistress Valora, then I am not opposed to your use of my given name in private." He gave a funny way of getting around to the idea but Samar was happy with his answer just the same. The more people who started using it the sooner it wouldn't be weird and he could just get rid of the Chantry name all together. "According to Samar my given name is Jeevan."

"Should I share this name with Vessa when she comes home tonight?"

"I leave that to your discretion."

"No, _dah'len_ , names like this are important. I won't share it with her if you don't want me to."

Jeevan went very quiet and ultimately didn't say anything. He really didn't care. He wasn't capable of it.

"Maybe not for now?" Samar suggested, and Jeevan stood up with thanks for the tea. He repeated her instructions for him to drink more elfroot throughout the day and to make sure he ate. It was almost first bell and they needed to head back to the keep. Just before they left, the Hamae touched Samar's hand and made him linger for a second while Jeevan convinced Dirth to release to soup bone the dog was mouthing on.

"I know it's hard, young man, to see him like this." She murmured quietly. "My door isn't just open to the women of this keep. Stop by after evening bell."

"Thank you, _Hamae_." Samar touched his forehead with a finger, a sign of respect, and then went trotting after his brother and the hound.

The morning bell tolled just as they were getting back to the workshop, and Jeevan froze up for some reason next to his work table, the basket sitting on the counter and their shoes still damp from the walk. His fire was burning, his cauldron was bubbling, his ledger was open, but he was acting odd. He took a step to Samar then stopped, went back, reached for his ledger but stopped again. He put his arms straight at his sides and didn't do anything for a good minute. What the hell?

Finally, he blurted out: "It is important that you speak with Seneschal Garevel, however it is mandatory that I resume my duties in the workshop." O…kay?

"I can find it again on my own, I think. What's wrong?" Jeevan spat his answer out in a stream of constant words:

"As I am your contact within the Vigil it is reasonable to assume my presence would lend both weight and credence to your request for work. However, I am mandated by my contract to remain at work here in the shop."

"It's nothing to get worked up about, I've asked for jobs before-"

And then Jeevan started going _fast,_ like rope spitting over the deck after a catch no one had thought to tie down.

"Your skills are not suited to life within a landlocked fortress and it is doubtful that without recommendation from one already employed within the keep that you will be considered for any temporary or labouring positions within the fortress. Although my contract is not of the usual nature for Vigil's Keep my presence-" _Woah-_

"You're getting knots in your rigging and need to calm down a little." Before he chewed his tongue away trying to get as many words out as possible.

"I am calm, and it is important that-"

" _Stop._ " Samar got right over to him and put both hands down firm on his brother's shoulders. When he opened his mouth to motor away at him again, Samar gave him a shake. "Stop. Your day started all of five minutes ago. Either stay here and make the stuff in your book, or come with me and watch me talk to the Seneschal. But cut it out with this worrying before I send you back to the midwife."

"I am not worrying. I am not capable of experiencing anxiety."

"Then quit spitting nonsense at me. Here or with the Seneschal? Make a choice."

"I am unable to distinguish which option is of a higher priority." What the hell was that supposed to mean?

"What do you think'll happen if you don't come with me?"

"The possibility of you being granted a working position within the Vigil is reduced." Samar's heart squeezed a little. That almost sounded like-

"Is that a good or bad thing?"

"If you are not granted employment then you will be required to return to Amaranthine City for the duration of your ship's maintenance and repair." He said it all in a flat voice, with his eyes only half open, and that brand shimmering in the middle of his forehead. "As I am not capable of easy travel to and from the city, it is unlikely that we will meet again before your departure. Therefore, it is preferable for you to remain here, but I am mandated by my contract to-" _He wanted Samar to stay._

That stupid and roundabout way of Jeevan saying what he wanted stuck a warm dart right in Samar's chest. He wanted him to stay. For a whole two months, he wanted him here and for them to be around each other. The Chantry had fucked him up in so many ways but when he saw his family again he wanted Samar to stay and that was enough. He had his pay from Wycome and Rivain. If Samar couldn't get a job proper with the Seneschal then by Andraste's Full Bosom he'd just pay his way into a warm stable or small inn room until the Lady Freeborn was ready. He'd just have to deal with the fall-out of that decision when he got back to Gwaren. Maybe he'd just tell Ariyah he'd gambled it all away.

Right now what mattered was he hugged his brother. He hugged him good and strong and tight with both arms, and it shut up the babble of words. Jeevan wanted him to stay; he was staying.

"Captain can tell you himself to get back to work if he doesn't want you in his cabin for a chat. C'mon, Jeevan, we're gonna go see the Seneschal."

They went. It required a lot of physical pulling and prodding on Samar's end to get his brother to come, but once they were at the Seneschal's office Jeevan stopped resisting and just went along with it.

Seneschal Garevel was a few good years older than Samar himself, but he carried himself like a professional who knew what his job required and how to do it right. Knife-ear or not, Samar knew his own profession just as well. This was the sort of Captain to watch out for and try to get on the good side of right away.

The Seneschal didn't hate elves: that was apparent from the get-go when he looked at Samar with quiet confusion and then Jeevan with open recognition. Right, the Arl was an elf. _Right_.

Introductions were made in Jeevan's stilted way, the Seneschal brought them immediately to the point and Samar did the rest of the talking. He laid it all out: he could read and he could write and he could do his numbers. He was a Boatswain for a good company and managed both cargo and men. His ship had been shattered on the breaker in Amaranthine City and until the hold was repaired and the water pumped out, he wanted to be useful while also staying close to his brother.

It was all on Garevel after that. Samar braced when he saw the clouds going dark in the sky.

"Respectfully," Seneschal Garevel said in an even voice. "I am not of the business of a dockyard, a warehouse, or a company, Ser Boatswain. This is a fortress with no meaningful water access save our well and cisterns, and it has no use of a sailor." _Fuck_. The Seneschal dipped his pen into the ink on his desk to refill it before resuming his writing on the great book spread across his desk. He continued speaking as he wrote.

"Considerations for the families of Grey Wardens are often made, but your brother is no such thing." No, he was a tranquil apothecary, not a Blight warrior… "You are free as any man to acquire odd jobs about the keep for whatever payment is available, such as those posted to the chanter's board, and I leave it to our brother's discretion if he will permit you to share his living quarters for the duration of your stay. _That being said…_ "

"Ser?"

The Seneschal stopped scribbling in his book. He looked up at Samar with a stern and measuring gaze, then flipped his pen in his hand and thumped the end on his desk. Oh, oh he was thinking something. He wasn't happy about it, but it wasn't quite at the point of pulling teeth either.

"I am not often of a mind to take a tradesman from his trade, Ser Boatswain." He was polite about giving Samar his title, it was more than he got in some ports along the Amaranthine coast. "But given the circumstances of the city harbour, the time of year, and the current mood of the castle…" Samar made sure, hands behind his back, to lean in just so to hear the rest of this. The Seneschal gave Jeevan a long look, then regarded Samar again and spoke bluntly.

"Concerns have recently been brought to my attention over your brother's safety and well-being within Vigil's Keep. As his patron has been dispatched to the Anderfels, I had intended to post a member of the Silver Order near to his workshop to ensure no further incidents occurred, but your presence may prove a more pleasing alternative." Samar had to work hard not to whip his head around at his brother. What the fuck kind of _incident_ required an armed guard follow an elf around the keep for protection?

"If Master Ansera will consent to shared accommodations," Garevel continued, "And you will agree to remain available and keep an eye on him, assisting with tasks throughout the day and such, then I can arrange to have the Quartermaster see to your immediate needs. The position offers no pay, but room and board will be available until your ship is repaired and you are able to resume your proper trade." Sounded good to him!

"Done and done, ser." Samar agreed, grinning wide and ready to kiss his hands in Andraste's praise. When he chanced a look at Jeevan, his blank face hadn't changed at all and he was just standing there with his arms hanging at his sides. Discouraging, but oh well. "Before we leave you to your work, Seneschal, might I know what I'm supposed to be keeping an eye out for?" Garevel was spinning that heavy pen of his over his knuckles, but with a nod he answered.

"I am in the midst of a small tiff with the Revered Mother of Vigil's Keep over the indignity shown to your brother which led to him becoming so ill prior to your arrival. As he is a former Ward of the Chantry, it only seems prudent on my part to provide him with a buffer until matters are resolved." This was the same Chantry that had beaten his own name off of him as a boy. Same colours, different crew.

"Aye, ser. I'll not go _fighting_ anyone, but I'll keep my eyes on those choppy waters." And get fed for it too. Sitting all day in Jeevan's shop wasn't the most exciting shore leave, but it was better than mucking stables or being stranded _anywhere_ near Orlais.

"Samar Ashera, was it?" The Seneschal said, immediately pushing his book and sweeping a sheet of parchment out in front of him. His pen scrawled and dipped across the surface and Samar said _'Yes ser'_ at all the right times. "Compounder Ansera and I may have to meet in the coming days, but for now… Present this to Quartermaster Felsi at noon bell to receive your meal for the hour. You may both return to work." Samar took the page with its ink still glistening, and was careful not to fold it and smear his very literal meal-ticket.

"Yes, Seneschal."

"Thank you, ser."

Garevel gave them a quick wave off, and the pair of elves got out of the man's office.


	15. To Struggle

**Died in Your Arms, Lost Boy, I Found, Sound of Silence, Whatever We Were Before**

* * *

 ** _Echoes of Arlathan_**

To Struggle

There was one objective flaw in Samar's decision and ability to remain in Vigil's Keep. The possibility of it had not occurred to Jylan prior to his brother's assignment by the Seneschal. After three days of close and pleasant contact with his sibling Jylan became aware of it in a most obtuse and disagreeable manner. He had begun to struggle. Tranquil were not meant to struggle, it was a drain on their mental ability and physical well-being, but that was what had started.

"Hey, if I'm cramping you in bed then we can find me a cot." They awoke before dawn, they moved through the routine of exercise, dressing, and prepping the workshop. They gathered their breakfast and returned to the workshop to eat, and that was when Samar made his comment. It was a response to Jylan's struggle. "You, like, barely slept last night and that's probably my fault."

"It was not your fault, but you are correct: I did not sleep uninterrupted last night." Causing the sense of fatigue in his limbs this morning, but he would recover from it after the morning deliveries and commencement of work. Samar smiled at him and attempted to wordlessly communicate that he was both sorry for the poor night and seeking to remain on agreeable terms with Jylan. Neither point was necessary.

"Okay, so later today I'll go snuff around for some blankets and rushes and set myself up on the floor."

"That is not necessary."

"It's _your_ _bed_." His brother incorrectly construed his meaning, leaning on the worktable with his elbows and no longer reading from the ledger to ensure the mornings' deliveries would be packed up smoothly. "If we get desperate I can nail a sheet up to the walls and act like I'm back at sea."

"It is unwise to assume that nails would penetrate a stone wall with sufficient strength to bear your weight."

"I'm not fat, I'm just muscle-y." That was not Jylan's intended meaning. That was not the point he had attempted to make. This conversation was not progressing as it should have. A headache was beginning to form in the space between his eyes but below the brand, a physiological response to the struggle that Jylan inadvertently triggered by failing to communicate clearly. He closed his eyes.

Samar stood and his footsteps moved around the table to stand beside him. He felt his brother touch his arm with one hand, and then reach across his back to rub over his shoulders and down in a wide circle. The contact was pleasing. The concern was clearly conveyed. His headache increased in intensity.

"Don't go getting sick again…"

"My condition is unrelated to the fever."

"How about you sit down just in case?" He was concerned. He was displaying kindness. He was offering support with the intention of easing suffering and reinforcing a bond of love.

The pain spiked laterally from his forehead back through his skull, ripping out from the base of his neck. His eyes squeezed shut and his face twisted, mouth open, and he felt his head fall with his shoulders tensely hiked up in response to the negative stimulation. It hurt very much.

"Woah." A stool was pushed against the back of his thighs and he was moved to sit on it. Samar's presence remained close at his side, hands on his back and holding his arm to ensure he remained stable. His white hood was pulled down, but his eyes remained shut. "Talk to me."

Jylan brought both hands to the table and laid his palms down flat over the grain. There were hammer-marks on this side of the workspace and he found one of the rounded indents with the pad of his thumb. The wood was cool and deeply grained.

"Jeevan? What's hurting you?"

"I have inadvertently triggered a state known among the Tranquil as a _struggle_. It will pass."

"How do I help?"

"It is easier to control when in the company of other Tranquil or alone." To be alone would reduce the amount of stimulation and that absence would permit him to examine himself and his mental state, reorganizing the intrusive thoughts and managing their impact on his physical self. But Samar would worry if- "This is an infrequent condition, brother, and does not arise often or remain for very long. I am tranquil and am experienced with the process."

"The process of _what?_ " Samar asked him. He was bent down to remain close to Jylan, his arms extended now to wrap around his back and clasp his far shoulder, the other arm wound across his chest and holding around his ribs. Samar was seeking to provide physical comfort and emotional support and was only succeeding in the former. But the latter _should_ have-

"I am tranquil." There was no emotional support required for one who did not have any emotional capacity or capability.

"Jeevan-" He would not leave until he had achieved a state of understanding over Jylan's condition or was otherwise forced to depart and Jylan did not consider himself capable of that kind of physical altercation at present.

"As a sailor, Samar, can you swim?" He asked his brother.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I am attempting to contextualize my situation in a manner that you will more easily grasp." His head hurt. His skull was radiating pain. As an incidental tangent he remembered the tales of the Tranquil who had been captured and sacrificed; their hair and faces peeled from their skulls to form bizarre objects known as the Oculara. The tangent and its content did not inspire disgust or fear in him, but it _should ha- "_ The metaphor requires certain experiences on your part, such as the ability to tread water or to swim. Are you able to swim?"

Samar released his shoulder and resumed rubbing his back.

"Yes, I can." His voice was calm. It held an echo of fear. That fear _should have-_

"I assume the sails of a ship are made of heavy canvas, is this correct?" His head was hurting.

"Cotton and linen, yeah. Cotton's lighter, but linen's better in bad weather. Where're you going with this?"

"Tranquility is the sensation of water closing over your head." He kept his eyes closed, was aware of his shoulders refusing to ease down despite the warm pass of his brother's hand across his back. "It is cold and deafening, it closes off senses you are accustomed to. The term _Tranquility_ was chosen for the state of hovering in that water, beneath the surface, beyond the motivation to change or alter the mind's position. _Struggle_ is the moment when the mind remembers what is missing."

"Tranquility is that pause before you drown when it all seems okay?" Jylan opened his eyes. The firelight splashed across the room was blurred, his brother's face was very close to his and much of it was cast in shadows. His skull throbbed.

"Struggle is the moment when a drowning man remembers that he could once swim." His voice felt rough in his throat and sounded broken in his ears. He was too tense. It was difficult to breathe.

"Why did you ask about sails?"

"Because the canvas is wet and it is heavy and it is spread across the surface of the water so the swimmer cannot rise." It was the brand on his forehead and the bead of lyrium embedded in his skull. "The drowning know that there is air but they are sucked and pushed back down by the canvas before they can take a breath. The Tranquil know we should feel happiness, or grief, or anger, but are left with only absence. The very fact that the absence itself does not inspire outrage or fear begins a cycle of intense, futile struggle with negative physiological impacts. My head hurts and my chest is tight. My heart may begin to beat rapidly."

He was pulled to his feet and then held very, very tightly… Samar's hugs were generally very satisfying, Jylan had encountered this trend at multiple points over the preceding days. His brother was strong and very warm. They were of comparable height to one another and Samar had set aside his leather armour in favour of borrowed wool clothes and other soft layers from his own belongings, ensuring that there were no hard or edged pieces on his body when embracing. As they were family, Samar had explained only once to him that he felt no hesitation to display necessary affection in this way.

Jylan was not grateful. He should have been. Logically, emotionally. But he could not be grateful because he was tranquil. He should have desired this commitment from his brother, but he did not. He should have, but he did not. He was tranquil. That he could not return such affection in a genuine manner should have inspired distress and pain in him. He was tranquil and thus felt no such affliction. He did not love his brother, but he _should have_.

He closed his eyes and rested his chin and mouth on his brother's shoulder. His arms linked around Samar's waist to return the embrace and express the received and accepted nature of the gesture. His head hurt very much.

"It will pass." He repeated this statement to ensure his brother understood the temporary nature of the affliction. Light was beginning to seep through the workshop window. "This morning's deliveries must be completed."

"I'll do them." Samar hushed him and rubbed his back. It was pleasing. The contact permitted him to breathe with greater ease again. "I know your run, it'll be fine. You just stay right here with me for a few more minutes." And accept continued physical comfort while making a controlled effort to restore his internal sense of balance. Jylan closed his eyes again and found a more comfortable way to hold his head. Samar's skin was warm and smelled of deep, heavy spice.

He was tranquil, his struggle was futile. The expectation of emotion was a needless stress upon him that would yield no results nor positive impact upon his routine and duties. He had experienced a previous struggle during his transition from Amaranthine City to Vigil's Keep, partially triggered by his reunion with Connor, a situation which should have inspired great joy and excitement but had not. Another episode had occurred at the end of the war against Redcliffe when Connor had been physically reduced to a near-death state, a situation which had progressed for many months and should have caused great feelings of fear and anger, but had not. He was tranquil. Acute awareness of his condition was not necessary. He was tranquil.

He would maintain his routine until the struggle passed. It would pass, it had no alternative: he was tranquil, and would remain so for the rest of his life. He was tranquil. This was fact. He was tranquil. He was not meant to experience emotion. He maintained his ability to choose and discriminate between different options, but he did not have emotions, and he was not meant to. He was tranquil.

Samar kissed his cheek again, rough and loving, and the headache began to ease. Jylan did not love his brother because he was tranquil. He was not indifferent towards his brother because he consciously chose to grant him a higher priority and level of attention than other individuals encountered throughout the day. He did not love his brother because he was not capable of experiencing love, he was tranquil.

He was tranquil, and it was nearly first bell.

"You may perform the deliveries now." His brother squeezed him very tightly for a few seconds, and then began to release him. His hands were affectionate and pleasing as they brushed back over Jylan's hair and were careful not to fold or push down on his ears. His brother was emotionally distressed, but when he kissed Jylan again it was to the left of the brand: he did not consider touching the mark to be a sign of affection.

"Make some of that tea the midwife wanted you to keep drinking. I'll be back with Dirth quick as I can." The tea was an appropriate suggestion as the elfroot would have a positive effect on his headache. He nodded as acknowledgment. "And finish your breakfast." The bread was only half-eaten on the table. Samar moved away from him and began putting the final items into the basket, taking up the small leather folio with the names and requisitions copied into it. He made it all the way to the door before grasping the jamb and leaning back into the workshop to point at Jylan directly. "And don't let anyone take the piss out of you while I'm gone! Just- _take it easy_."

Jylan nodded again and his brother departed. As it was not yet first bell, Jylan was not required to begin working on requisitions just yet.

He brewed the elfroot tea specified by Mistress Valora and continued to manage himself. When he had mentally arranged the points of greatest difficulty for himself, he spoke them aloud in their correct form so as to reinforce his own understanding. There was no need to struggle. There was nothing to reach for. Nothing his mind had tricked itself into believing was necessary, because the absence was the purpose and effect of his tranquility.

"I do not miss Connor because I am tranquil. I am not meant to long for others."

"I do not love Samar because I am tranquil. I am not meant to bond with others."

"I do not love Valora because I am tranquil. I am not meant to bond with others."

"I do not love An'eth because I am tranquil. I am not meant to be with others."

"I do not pity Dirthamen because I am tranquil. I am not meant to care for others."

"I am not angry towards Seamstress Correlay because I am tranquil. I am not meant to conflict with others."

"I do not admire or fear Arl Surana because I am tranquil. I am not meant to be inspired or intimidated by others."

"Nothing is wrong with me; I am tranquil. I am as I am as I ever will be."

His head no longer ached. He drank the tea. He heard the bell toll. He was tranquil and he began his work. Work was useful and offered a contribution that could be weighed, measured, quantified, and distributed throughout the keep. Work was proof of skill and ability. Work was justification for well-being and good health.

He was working when An'eth came to visit him.

"Is your brother not here?" She asked after obtaining his attention. He had finished stripping elfroot stalks and separating a bushel of them into component pieces. The act had taken up much of his time, but would satisfy multiple orders.

"He will return soon, as he is performing this morning's deliveries in my stead." As Samar was not dressed in a set of Jylan's white and blue formari robes, it was unlikely to assume that he would attempt to prank or startle any of the Vigil's denizens. "Did you require his attention, An'eth?"

"No. I mean- he's quite nice. I'm glad he's staying with you." She entered the workshop comfortably dressed down in warm Dalish fabrics and pleated boots. She did not appear to be in a state of high distress this morning, a pleasing alternative to their previous two encounters. "I know you're working right now, but I wanted to apologize for the last time we spoke."

"You were unwell, but caused no inconvenience." He told her. The comment was not appropriate, but he was not meant to converse easily with others. "If you have recovered then it is good. If not, I may prescribe a calming tea to aid you in the effort."

"No, I'm okay." She approached him and he set down the cleaver that he had used to chop elfroot stalks. She stood close to him and let one hand up to tangle through the ends of her bright red hair, knocking one of the thin braids woven from her temple with the nervous gesture. "I just wanted to check on you. I didn't… I probably made you really uncomfortable with what I said, and I'm sorry."

"I was not made uncomfortable." She took a breath at his comment and her cheeks began to turn pink. He was not certain if this signalled embarrassment or flattery. "Have you resolved the matter of your affections?" She frowned deeply at this question, skewing the lines of her blood writing.

"I care for you. _Deeply_. As far as I'm concerned there's nothing to resolve."

"That is unfortunate."

" _Why?_ " She made a challenge to him and he was uncertain of how to respond to it. The challenge gave her resolve, made her set her face with determination that was more in line with her proper personality. "You have friends, and you have family again: I _know_ you can cherish others so why does how I feel about you have to be _sad_ or _unfortunate_? You can reject me, Jylan, but don't _pity_ me."

"It is not my intention to provoke a negative reaction from you, An'eth. I merely advise caution."

" _Why?_ " She repeated, in a louder tone this time.

"Because I am fundamentally unclear as to the purpose of your declaration beyond an attempt to relieve yourself of such affections." He answered her directly as such a method seemed to be the most effective at communicating himself properly. "Unless your intentions are purely to pursue a physical engagement with me then I do not understand your insistence that your feelings are anything but burdensome. I am a poor choice of companion. I have made no strides to present myself as a possible suitor to anyone." For many reasons, but the most prominent were as followed:

"I am tranquil and as such emotionally vacant and without the ability to provide the personal support or affection of a loving partner." He stated his reasons to her clearly, facing her directly. His hands were at rest at his sides and his voice was no different from any other discussion held within these walls. "While I am able to form conscious commitments and to make choices based on the immediate needs of those around me, I am not given to perform compulsive acts of affection or to act on motivations otherwise inspired by love. While I am physically healthy and capable, An'eth, it would be a mistake to assume intimacy would follow in a natural or convincing manner. There exists no quantifiable reason for which you would select me over-"

She reached up, grabbed his head, and kissed him. This was not the assumed or expected course of action.

"-any other better qualified male el-" he attempted to speak around her mouth, words slurred by her lips, but her grip on him tightened and her arms pulled with greater strength than anticipated. She licked at his teeth and lips and then covered his next breath with her mouth again. He stopped talking. She stopped pulling. The less he resisted the less she forced the matter.

The sensations swimming around his mouth were jarring and abruptly familiar. It did not have to be unpleasant. Her breaths were clean and sweet, her lips were cool and her tongue was soft. If his lips followed hers then the sensation would spread in a soothing manner across his jaw and down. She slid her thumb down his cheek to his chin and kissed again, just her lips pushing up into his and her hands resting flat over his chest.

"…Because I love you," she whispered to him, lips still very close to his and their noses brushing. He was uncertain how she would react if he moved away from her so he did not make the attempt. "That is _my_ quantifiable reason, Jylan. I'm not asking you to change, I'm not telling you to give me more than you're capable of, and I don't want you to be uncomfortable around me either. But _I love you_. I'm a Grey Warden and my life can change at any moment, _Vhenan_ , I wasn't going to let it happen without kissing you first…" She looked down and rested her forehead to his collarbone, breathing soft and slowly against him. His wrist and curled fingers found her waist just to brace and ensure that she would not begin to push him. They did not embrace, and with a deep breath she stood straight again and looked at him with a tired and deeply serious expression.

"If you don't want this then tell me," she explained softly. "You have the right to say no, Jylan, but please don't just throw ' _because I'm tranquil_ 'at me like that somehow means you don't deserve love." She took his hands in both of hers, ignoring that his gloves were damp with elfroot juice. "I'm not asking you to pretend I'm suddenly your whole world or telling you I want flowers and gifts and poetry- I mean it would be _nice_ but I'm not _stupid_ either. I- I'm not going to send you into the bush to hunt a bear for me, I'm not asking you to love me. I'm asking you to let me _love you_."

She let go of one hand and lifted it to his face, curling her fingers so she could brush them gently down his cheek. This was a matter of great personal importance to her.

"If you don't want this, then we go back to being friends. If it's wrong to you, then… then nothing changes and we just stay close, no more talk of love. But don't just say _'because I'm tranquil_ ', Jylan, because you're _so much more than that…"_

He neither desired nor was repulsed by the idea. He was uncertain of the form the relationship she asked for would take, but had already stated that he was capable of committed decisions. This would, arguably, constitute little to no change in his typical interactions with other people around the Vigil save An'eth herself. If he consented to the arrangement then it would only be reasonable to expect it to remain a temporary one as An'eth would doubtless grow frustrated or pained by his lack of emotional response to her. Causing her pain in the long-term was not an appealing option. However, there existed a greater chance that if she was given the chance to experience his shortcomings over a period of days or weeks then it would prove less painful than outright refusal to participate in the idea.

If a mutual understanding of incompatibility could be established gradually rather than highlighted as a point of contention between them, then that was indeed the most agreeable option. The additional benefit of permitting romantic attraction to run a short course and then cool was also preferable to allowing her feelings to engross themselves in the manner of unrequited love.

Bearing all of this in mind, he thus consented to her idea.

"It has not been my intention to cause you undue distress and pain on my account, An'eth." As she was still holding one of his hands Jylan engaged with her there, establishing a modest grip on her to signal his heightened attention. "If these negative bouts may be addressed by a conscious shift in our relationship towards a more exclusive bond, then I will begin the effort to make what necessary changes I am capable of. I consider you a friend, An'eth, it would be disrespectful of me to ignore your needs when they do not conflict with my own."

"You- you're saying yes?" She was holding his hand and resting her other palm to his chest again, fingertips close to the collar of his robe.

"Was my agreement not your primary goal in making the request?"

"Yes- but I…" Her staring melted into a smile that grew into a grin, her eyes overwhelmed with things unsaid and difficult for him to understand. She pursed her lips and took a catching breath, then lifted herself onto her toes and traded his hand for the ability to twist her arm up around his neck and shoulder, cradling his face with her free hand and pressing her forehead to his cheek and jaw. An'eth pulled herself up close to him and Jylan placed an arm around her waist to ensure she remained steady. That it was an intimate gesture on his part did not escape his own awareness, but it was acceptably so.

" _Thank you…_ " She spoke close to his throat and there was an undeniable warmth left by her words. She kissed his cheek and it was not the same as when Samar had performed the same gesture. It was more carefully done, and lingered for longer.

"I must return to work, An'eth." He told her, his interest now briefly turned to the fact that Samar had not yet returned from the delivery run. "This discussion was important, but I must continue preparing the requisitions ordered yesterday." She began to nod before he finished speaking, but did not interrupt him as she settled herself properly on her feet again.

"I know, I know- you're right. Maybe- the weather isn't so bad today. Can you come to the gardens after evening bell? I won't keep you from visiting with your brother, Jylan, but I'm expecting my next orders from the Warden Commander any day now. Will you be there, tonight?" The gardens were a public space along the south side of the keep, established primarily for the mages as a meditation area and for the Dalish inhabitants of Vigil's Keep as a quiet place to dedicate time to their gods. Connor had built them. Jylan nodded to answer her request. It made her smile and grin at him again in delight.

"The last thing I'll ask you then, before I let you get back to work." She reigned in her smiles and he was not certain why that was necessary, her hands trailing down his arms before she ceased to touch him. "Please- don't tell the other Wardens. I- I _know_ that sounds strange, but just for now. Please don't tell them about us. Or anyone else."

"I do not understand," he told her. "Do you consider this arrangement illicit, or in some manner shameful?" If so then he did not understand her great investment in establishing it.

"No! Creators, no. Jylan, I'll explain it when I can, but not right now." She quickly took his hands again, squeezing them and looking at him with great emotion across her face. Samar entered the doorway. " _You_ need to work and I need to be in the training yard. Meet me tonight-" Samar immediately turned away into the hall.

His brother either interpreted the situation as intensely personal and had no wish to intrude, or as illicit and held no desire to label himself as culpable. Jylan was incapable of discriminating between the two possibilities. He did not understand the request for secrecy. He did not give her a verbal response.

She kissed his hands and departed. It was apparent even to him that crucial information had been left unspoken. He did not know if any expectation of further explanation tonight in the gardens would be worthwhile.

Samar returned to the workshop with Dirthamen. The hound barked loudly, shook his back-end with great excitement, and frolicked towards Jylan for an over-enthusiastic greeting which bordered intensely on the unnecessary. Jylan acknowledged the dog in order to calm it, and then addressed the peculiar stare Samar was directing towards him by meeting it. He was uncertain of what else to do.

" _So_ …" He did not know what he was expected to say. "You… and the _redheaded Warden?_ " Samar was requesting confirmation.

"It is not an ideal arrangement; Tranquil do not make suitable partners. But she is a friend and she is insistent." He was required to return to work but this exchange, much like his meeting with An'eth, was one he considered a priority. Samar wheeled his hands over each other like he was spinning something backwards, a nervous gesture which expressed some of his anxiety.

"Okay, so I'm not wrong for thinking it's weird that you're planning late-night rendezvous with a pretty lady then?"

"Evening bell is not technically late at night, but no. You are no wrong for noting the peculiarity itself."

"Alright, _that's it._ " Samar made a strange gesture like he meant to bang his fist on the table while standing so far away from it. He turned to door and closed it, then came back to Jylan and spoke in a strangely deep voice, swinging his hand and pointing to the ceiling with it. "As your brother- as your _eldest brother_ -" he was staring at Jylan's feet. "-and either the head of this family or second to Rian, _who is also_ your brother, Jeevan." He was not speaking sensibly. He looked at him directly, but did not make any gains in clarity. "Before you meet with this girl tonight- have you ever?"

"I do not understand the question."

"You," Samar used both hands and gestured up and down to all of Jylan. "Have _you_ ever? With a girl? With _anyone?_ Doesn't matter, just- have you? I'm your brother I need to know these things sometimes."

"Samar, I cannot answer a question you have not asked."

" _Sex, Jeevan! Sex!"_ That made far more sense.

"Yes."

" _Really?_ I mean-" Samar winced at his own statement, waving his hands through the air. "Forget I said that. But was it before or after…" he waved his hand over his own face several times. "-the Rite?" That was not an appropriate topic of discussion. However, considering Samar's current disposition Jylan correctly inferred that a bare and factual answer would suffice.

"Both."

"Oh, so you know what you're doing then." His brother's immediate levels of stress dissipated with the answer, and he offered no follow-up questions. "That is _all_ I needed to know. Unless you wanna _talk_ about it, in which case I'm here for that, of course. I mean, there's no way you would know this but _Rian_ and women? Rian and _anyone?_ If you showed him boobs he'd probably just ask what was wrong with her shirt or if she needed to borrow his. Kinda sad- but _actually_ very funny."

"I must resume my duties now," Jylan explained and turned back to the elfroot spread across the table. Before reaching for the cleaver to resume the work itself, he spoke again. "Tell me of Rian."

Samar gave a big grin, opened the workshop door and then sank down into the hard wooden chair where he usually sat. He threaded his fingers together behind his head, and crossed his ankles with both legs sticking out in the air, pretending there was a stool or ottoman for him to rest them on. He gave a restful sigh as Jylan picked up the cleaver.

" _Ahh, Rian._ For starters, _much_ better man than I am- and I don't think too badly of myself either! Family first, second and third. Let's see now…"

The morning proceeded in a more comfortable fashion from there.

At midday, without explanation or warning, Jylan was summoned to see the Arl.


	16. He Means It When He Says

_**Echoes of Arlathan**_

He Means It When He Says

"Ah, Compounder Ansera. So pleased you could join me today."

It was not considered usual for the Warden Commander to address or summon Jylan directly. It was not considered typical of him to give attention to the Tranquil in general, beyond his obligatory correspondence with the Formari Guildmaster. Archmage Surana did not like the Tranquil and his position on the matter had been clearly explained multiple times in the manner of him looking at Guildmaster Owain or Jylan himself and plainly telling them: _"I don't like Tranquil_ ".

Jylan had been tolerated during the war with Redcliffe. Jylan's employment within the Vigil hinged upon that tolerance. What Velanna or Connor would dismiss as the Commander's grandstanding or crabby dismissal when he uttered threats against Jylan's position, Jylan himself knew better. The Arl would dismiss him if given the opportunity. The Arl did not like Tranquil.

"How may I be of service, your grace?"

"Follow me."

Jylan had come to the Warden Commander's apartments as instructed by the Warden who had fetched him from the workshop. Samar had accompanied him but lingered outside the apartment doors as Jylan entered, and now the Warden Commander himself turned and led him further through the suite than he had ever previously ventured. This was his first time in the Commander's salon, and now his first time moving from the warmly lit chamber into a dim but finely decorated corridor.

From here they entered a windowless room holding many shelves, counters, and a wide table. Many tools of magical and alchemical properties were scattered about under and over many sheets and scraps of paper, magical equations interspersed with reagents of several kinds. The most striking item in the room was a tall twelve-foot mirror with a pointed top and swirling gold casement trailing down its sides. The mirror held no reflection, it was clearly magical in nature, and carried an undeniable hum that vibrated in its corner of the chamber. To be drawn too close to the object would be unfortunate.

"I had not known that the Tranquil brought to Vigil's Keep was considered to be one of your guild's most _affluent_ _members_." The Commander's voice was conversational and light as he entered the laboratory ahead of Jylan, trailing his fingertips over the table and igniting several mage-fire lamps as he passed them. He moved further into the laboratory and turned to Jylan again when he was close to the looming presence of the mirror, implying from his position that Jylan was not to approach the object. This was a good decision. "Were you aware of this distinction, Compounder?"

"Not explicitly, your grace."

"But the implication of it?" The Commander pressed. "It's not just any Tranquil who can forward amendments to the guild with the same diligence you have." He did not understand if this was a compliment or an accusation. Jylan was aware of how unwise it was to request clarification on such matters from the Warden Commander.

"Thank you, your grace." He was not reprimanded for his statement. It had been a compliment. "My assignment to Vigil's Keep has offered a new and different perspective on the functions and abilities of the Guildsmen in a world without the Circles of Magi. As I have not kept this perspective secret, it is possible that the affluence you speak of was generated from those efforts." Surana was quiet for a few moments.

The commander was dressed as an Archmage today, very typical of him. A long robe of deep emerald fabric was open and draped from his shoulders, revealing a fine set of shirt, vest, and trousers underneath it and done in a dark neutral pallet. He bore no staff with him, but a long silverite dagger hung at his belt within the robe, and a small tome of magical properties was hanging from the garment itself. When he stood at rest, his scarred fingers stayed atop the spine of the book.

"What was it that prompted you to write to Owain about these matters?" Surana asked him. "I reviewed them, briefly, earlier in the week when I visited the city. Some are just formalities but others like pay and leisure are quite revolutionary for the Tranquil. Don't mistake me, Compounder, I signed off on the changes and all that remains is for your guild members to ratify the amendments themselves, but you've piqued my curiosity just the same." While the question came with much exposition the Commander's emotional concerns were not necessary. There was no justification required.

"Our Guild has no reasonable expectation to prosper beyond the end of this Age, your grace." He folded his hands in front of him as he understood to be polite when speaking to a superior beyond the Circles. When he spoke Jylan looked to the Commander's chest; to the gold lines woven through his robe; to the tome at his belt: as had been proper within the Circles. "Therefore while the physical needs of the guildmembers must be invested in as-per the purchase of several buildings adjoined with the original hall, there is no intense burden to prepare for a second or third generation of Guildsmen to find their way to Amaranthine. When the current Guildsmen die, the guild will close."

"And whatever wealth you've amassed until that point will either go to the Arling or the city." Jylan nodded when the Warden Commander expressed his understanding of the situation. "Might as well spend a little bit of it on yourselves first. But are you so sure about your guild's fate?"

"Yes. With the dissolution of the Circles, the College of Enchanters' protection of unskilled magi, Divine Victoria's condemnation of the Rite of Tranquility, and the Seekers of Truth's disavowal of the ritual, we are expected to be the final full generation of cultured Tranquil. In decades to come other mages will be cut off from the Fade, this is certain, but it will not occur in the same numbers as was once permitted by the Circles. Considering the geographical scope of Thedas and the inherent dangers of solitary travel, most especially in the case of a young Tranquil engaged in struggle, it is unlikely that any Tranquil save those afflicted here in Amaranthine or of significant family means will journey to a distant guild hall to replenish our numbers."

The Warden Commander lifted his hand from the tome at his belt, gestured with his open palm for Jylan to be quiet.

"You said two strange things right there: cultured tranquil, and engaged in struggle?"

"Forgive me, Archmage, as I spoke carelessly." He rambled off the statement before proceeding smoothly into the requested answer. " _Tranquil Culture_ is a term for the mutual understanding and shared experiences of those subjected to the Rite of Tranquility within the Circles of Magi."

"Tranquil _what?_ " Before the Archmage could grow enraged at him, Jylan amended himself:

"It is not my intent to imply that the Formari have a sense of community or that we consider ourselves as objectively nuanced or complex as the culture of Circle Mages in general." As to suggest as much would be perceived as an insult and Jylan's dismissal from Kinloch hold for offending the Warden Commander would prove deeply unfortunate for his family in Gwaren. "But there is significant overlap between the experiences of a Formari in Starkhaven to the ones from Montsimmard, or Ferelden, or the White Spire."

He did not look at the Archmage's face. He did not gauge his expression. He kept his eyes on the silver buttons of the open robe and did not waver.

"No more Circle Formari, fine. I understand that much. Now explain what it is the _Tranquil_ struggle with."

"Struggle is merely a term shared among the guildsmen to describe a state of heightened awareness. It is unpleasant, and yields negative physiological effects on us, but grows steadily less common and of a shorter duration the longer one is tranquil." To grant some relevance to this information as it was shared, Jylan deemed it appropriate to do something he had not previously attempted in his few limited interactions with the Warden Commander: he spoke of their Circle. "Within Kinloch Hold, as your grace may recall, Apprentices selected for the Rite of Tranquility often disappeared for a period of three days to a week before reappearing within the tower's public areas. Much of that time was spent in the company of one or two senior formari, who aided the new one in managing the struggle for the first time." Surana folded his arms. Jylan did not look at his face.

"I do remember that." His voice was stiff; he was not pleased but did not usher Jylan to silence.

"Since the dissolution of the Circles it has been largely assumed that most mages wrongly or accidentally subjected to the Rite have perished for this lack of support. Therefore, the guild is not likely to survive beyond the next thirty or forty years at most." His statement brought the discussion full circle. He fell silent.

That silence stretched. The Warden Commander took a sharp breath, turned toward the table, took a moment to rub his face and re-establish himself. Jylan did not speak. It was possible that this would conclude their short meeting today.

"Why do I let you people drag me down tangents like that?" The Archmage asked but he did not speak clearly or with a sense of directness. Jylan did not answer. "It's always the most miserable topics… Compounder Ansera, I'm going to change the subject."

Jylan did not speak. His hands remained folded in front of him, elbows bent, eyes cast down to the appropriate level. The Archmage made a frustrated sound at him, but proceeded.

"Has Warden Velanna Howe spoken to you of her intentions?" He was questioned. Now Jylan spoke.

"No, your grace."

"Huh. Fine, do you know what the _Arlath'vhen_ is?" Jylan processed the word slowly. He knew the name _Arlathan_ , the lost el'vhen capital city. He knew _vhen_ was the first part of the word _vhenan_ , meaning heart in the old language. The portions of the two words together did not carry any significance to him.

"No, your grace."

"Then she's making even less sense then normal, that one." This comment was spoken in the same rough, dismissive tone that communicated for Jylan not to give a response. "The _Arlath'vhen_ is a Dalish event. It happens once every ten years when all the clans scattered across Thedas meet together in a grand reunion. They share their history, trade news and events, and perhaps a hundred other very important things: and it's happening this spring. Warden Velanna has asked me to send you with her and the Dalish Wardens."

Jylan considered this. Briefly. He nearly lifted his eyes to look at the Warden Commander but maintained his downward gaze before speaking.

"I do not understand."

"Neither do _I_ ," the Commander gave a bitter laugh. "You're not _Dalish_."

"No, your grace. I was born in Gwaren. My parents were not Fereldan but I have no reason to believe that they were Dalish in their country of origin."

"Even if they had been, _you_ were raised in the Andrastian _Circle of Magi_."

"And I am tranquil." Jylan agreed. However: "Does Warden Velanna require a retainer for the journey? Would such a need overrule my obligations to the workshop and active standing as the Vigil's Apothecary in Warden Guerrin's absence?"

"If she needs someone to carry her bag across Thedas then Warden Velanna should consider _resigning her commission_." The sharpness of the Archmage's voice spoke of great personal violence. Jylan would endeavor not to antagonize him on the matter of Warden Velanna. "And no, your skills are of better use in the workshop than sloughing through the Brecellian forest in winter. I don't expect Sergeant Guerrin to return from the Anderfels before next summer at this rate either. I can expect that they've reached the Anderfels by now, but winter will settle over the steppes soon and without reaching through the Fade I'm not likely to hear any reports from them for some time."

Connor had known at the outset that the simple distance from Amaranthine to Weisshaupt Fortress would necessitate his absence for the better part of a year, if not more. Still, it was not pleasant information for Jylan to revisit.

He had no comments worth making to answer the Warden Commander, so remained quiet until Surana spoke to him again.

"Velanna hasn't spoken to you about this at all, then?"

"No, your grace."

"Do you have any investment in going, now that you know what it is?"

"No, your grace."

"Then the matter is settled: you're not going." Jylan waited for the Archmage to dismiss him from the workshop. "And now _finally_ …" His hand returned to the tome at his hip, though he did not remove it from its harness next to him. "Compounder, are you recovered from your fever?"

"Yes, your grace." His coughing had not yet ceased _entirely_ , but had reached such low and infrequent levels so as to no longer prove troublesome. The painful, crushing intensity of the coughing had completely vanished.

"Do you remember much of your affliction?" The Commander questioned, and Jylan did not deny him answers. There was no reason to.

"More so towards the end, your grace. I understand from Midwife Valora and Warden Velanna that I experienced a period of delirium from the fever early in my illness, but I do not recall the incident myself."

"Perhaps for the better." He said. "Compounder, look at me." Jylan did not deny this request.

The Hero of Ferelden offered many opportunities to remember the First Enchanter of Kinloch Hold. He did not stand with poise: no chin up, shoulders back, or lines stretched to pretend a short elf was a taller or larger man. To meet Jylan's eyes the Archmage had to look up, but the distance between them was a conscious tool to ensure the angel was shallow and Surana did not have to actually tilt his head back. First Enchanter Irving, a tall human man, had employed the opposite technique: he had always stood very close, ensuring he was always looking straight down at whomever he was speaking to.

Amara, a human Apprentice who had died nine years ago in her Harrowing, had explained the rules of body language to him. He had found it fascinating before the Rite.

Circle Mages had worn robes cut with details that constantly drew the eye down: sloped shoulders, dipping waistlines, bell-shaped hems. Everything from their wide sleeve cuffs to their softly soled shoes had been intentional. Anything to make them appear smaller and slimmer and less imposing so they could blend into the shadows and dark corners of their tower. Dark blue Apprentices. Dark red Enchanters. Dark green Mages. Blacks and golds for the Senior Enchanters.

The Tranquil had been softer still. Eyes down, head down, hands together, voices never above a murmur. Black robes, undyed wool, coarse and unhemmed.

The Templars with chainmail rasping against polished steel: always loud and visible. Their winged helmets, rising so high they nearly nicked the tops of stone doors. Wide breastplates and pauldrons that dwarfed the neck, swords enchanted by Formari hands to glow in the dark and seek out the hiding shadows in their charge. Helmets closed and hiding their faces, making their voices echo and requiring them to speak loudly so as to be heard from behind the metal.

The Chantry sisters in bright red and white and orange and yellow robes. Ropes of yellow twine holding talismans of rich and glittering amber. Lofty voices, raised chins, necks stretched like strutting hens. White birch tree rods that tapped loudly on the stone floors with every step.

He remembered the Circle when he saw Surana stand like Irving.

He had learned from the First Enchanter. His frame was relaxed but never closed. Surana's chest was perpetually held open and his robes lacked those tear-drop lines: instead they rested straight across his shoulder. The silver hems fell fast and in sharp lines to his knees where they then tapered back around his boots, granting him the illusion of height while allowing him to stand with his feet apart, again, granting him weight.

He was short but he was present. He was Magi but he was powerful. He was elven but he was respected. He stood as a small but immovable object that never played down his own importance or presence in a room. He knew everyone in Vigil's Keep. He saw everything they did. If those two things were not true then the truth did not matter: he watched with close attention and like Irving he reserved his voice for only when it was necessary. He judged and did so quickly and decisively.

Meeting the First Enchanter's favourite former Apprentice had been objectively good for Jylan. It had contextualized many comments and opinions he had encountered during his own Apprenticeship. His subjugation to the Rite of Tranquility and Amara's failure in her Harrowing both made considerably more sense upon exposure to the mage they had both been consistently measured against.

"Remove your hood, Tranquil." Jylan did so, there was no reason not to comply.

Surana approached him, looking at his face. He focused his bright eyes on Jylan's forehead and it was clear that his attention was held by the brand. The Archmage permitted himself to come so close as to tilt his head back to see Jylan's face properly, but he did not acknowledge this height difference. To lean down without instruction would run the risk of offending Surana.

The Archmage focused on his eyes and spoke.

"Does magic hurt the Tranquil?" Surana asked.

"We are as vulnerable as anyone, your grace."

"I'm not talking about the primal schools," he corrected, then held one scarred hand up and conjured a ghostly white orb over his palm. The light was soft and sang in a gentle voice. Surana regarded his own conjuring for a moment and then addressed Jylan again. "If you pass your hand through this orb, will it hurt you?"

"If it is merely a conjuring of light and warmth, then I do not imagine so, no."

"Do so." Jylan did. The warmth bathed his hand to the wrist, swirling about his fingers like a summer wind. It offered no resistance, it was a gentle weave of creative energy.

Surana moved only his hand and arm, guiding the orb like a cloud of smoke that would disperse if handled too harshly. He brought it directly in front of him, hovering against his palm, and then took a step back so his arm was extended straight out towards Jylan.

"I would have you walk forward until the magic enters your chest. If it causes you pain, you will step back immediately." This would not be pleasant. He obeyed the order.

It was not pleasant. When he stepped into the light it was warmth that touched his clothes and his skin, but then it went too far, went _inside_. It engulfed his ribs and filled his lungs, it capped his stomach. It was not hot. It did not burn. It was a warm summer wind but it was inside where it was not meant to be. He could feel it, perfectly round, not touching his flanks but pushing from his sternum to his spine. It was not pleasant.

"I said to step back." Surana scolded, pulling his hand away and drawing the orb out. Jylan breathed. He had not drawn breath while the magic was inside of him.

"You said to step back if I experienced pain." He resisted the urge to cough. He succeeded. "There was no pain."

"What did you feel then? I can't remember the last time I saw something make a Tranquil grimace." It had not occurred to him that his face would move. Expression had never come naturally to him after the Rite.

"Any change in expression was unintentional, your grace."

Surana made him repeat the exercise. It was unpleasant. He passed the orb through Jylan's arms and legs. It was of no concern from his feet to his knees, or his hands to his elbows, but the closer to his torso the magic came the more acute the unease became. The Archmage began to take notes. They were written crookedly with a shard of discarded charcoal and on the back of a torn piece of paper.

"May I inquire as to your purpose in these observations, Archmage?" Surana sighed in a quick breath when he intruded with his question.

"Now I feel like some Magister," he grumbled. It had not been Jylan's intention to liken the Hero of Ferelden to a slave-owning blood mage. "I'm not going to run a barrage of tests on you, Ansera, and I'm not about to cause you any pain either. Maker, you probably-" He curled his lips in disdain, then looked at Jylan sharply and barked another question at him. "Were you ever subjected to experiments in the Fereldan Circle?"

"No, Archmage. I am elven and that was not my purpose." Some Tranquil had been required for various medical and magical experiments. Testing the effectiveness of poultices and potions, providing practice opportunity for appropriate healing and regenerative spells, and so on. Jylan had never known a Tranquil from Kinloch Hold to encounter any pain or harm that had not been fully resolved by a capable healer before the end of the experimentation hour. However, he had known several Tranquil from the Kirkwall Gallows who had been excessively scarred and maimed by the same specialization.

The only session he had participated in himself had been a lesson in dousing magic: he had sat for an hour upon a chair in an Enchanter's office while her apprentice cast searching and seeking magic through him. The lesson had ended when the boy had found the small cut made on the back of his leg and healed it. The Enchanter had later been reprimanded by the Templars for selecting him for the exercise: he was elven.

He was elven, like Surana, and it was apparent now by the Archmage's strong focus on him that that may have been an issue.

"As an elven tranquil, what _was_ your purpose?" Jylan had lacked an unknown property in his enchantments to be considered a proper _Formari_ for the Circle. It had been readily accepted by the other Tranquil that this quality had not been a matter of lyrium and enchantment itself, but a preoccupation with his race. He was elven. "Compounder Ansera, I will not ask again: what was your specialization and assigned task within the Circle of Magi?"

"My secondary specialization was chemistry and alchemical study, with tertiary duties in the stock rooms and storage facilities of the Circle."

"Secondary and tertiary, what about primary?" Jylan dropped his eyes to Surana's buttons again. However he did not deny the request, there was no reason to.

"My primary task within the Circle was in the Templar Quarters as a liaison." Checking and changing bedding; providing fresh water for washing; removing and returning laundry; overseeing specialized repairs to arms and armour; provision, measurement and distribution of lyrium; sexual compliance when required. "My familiarity with several members of the Order was what facilitated my survival during the Circle's Annulment."

"You were their _pet_." There was a deep sense of derision and insult in his voice.

"Yes." He had been referred to as such on countless occasions, often with great fondness on behalf of the speaker. "The rhetoric around elven Apprentices past and present was always unpleasant within the Circle, but it was especially distasteful among the Order. However, it is in the past now." The Apprentices were dead. The Templars were disgraced or also dead.

"And which Apprentices did they gossip about, I wonder?" Surana spoke with venom, but his words were soft. His voice sounded tight and Jylan did not look at his face, it would only give him cause to lash out if he was inclined to do so. Jylan did not know the Archmage's temper in such a personal way.

"Is it your intention that I should answer that question, or allow it to remain rhetorical?"

Surana did not answer him right away, then let out a sharp, harsh laugh and walked a small circle, moving away from Jylan with his hands on his waist before turning around again sharply. Jylan did not look at his face.

"Why not! Tell me, Tranquil, _which ones_ did they talk about?" Very well, Jylan answered him.

"You were protected by your reputation," he stated. "I was the first elven Apprentice to arrive in the Circle after the massacre and losses of the Blight. You were often spoken of in the public areas of the Circle; by Mages, Templars, and Chantry in almost equal measure and in highly respectful terms. When I became liaison to the Templars there was a harsh distinction between the ones who had served during the Blight and those who had come after. Whenever a younger Templar sought to ask after you in that manner, they were harshly criticized and shot down by their brothers and sisters. The other one was discussed at length." Surana's hands were twisted into tight, shaking fists.

"He wasn't tranquil."

"He was very pretty." That had always been the word. "Prettier than you or I. He was taller than you, but not too tall for an elf like I am. His colours were better; he was golden and not dark like me or too pale like you, and when they watched him bathe his hair was thick and curled gently around his face and ears. He had survived his Harrowing and would not be made Tranquil, but then he died in the massa-"

"What the _hell_ are you two talking about!" A loud, scandalized voice interrupted him and Jylan stopped talking. He did not immediately know the voice until he turned and saw Master Arainai's horrified face. He was standing boldly in the workshop door, slack-jawed and eyes flashing from Jylan to the Archmage and back again.

"You are a _terrible_ spy," Surana spat.

"Good, because I'm not a fucking spy! I'm your friend! What the _hell is this?"_

Jylan turned his eyes to the table next to him, drew his hood back up over his face where it belonged, and withdrew two steps towards the wall so as to melt out of the way of the two elves. It was not effective because Master Arainai stormed into the room and grasped Jylan by the arm, turning him towards the Archmage and shaking him like a prop at Surana.

" _Liaisons?_ Templars? Watching you _bathe?"_ Arainai exclaimed, too shocked for volume. " _I'm elven, he's elven_ , from both you? What the _fuck_ does that mean?" His grip was uncomfortable and held Jylan's arm up at an ungainly angle.

"Zevran let him _go_." Jylan was released, but then immediately crowded by the older man.

"What did the Templars do to you?" He demanded. Jylan looked to the Archmage for an indication of how he should address the- "No! I'm not talking to him, Ansera- I'm talking to _you!_ What did the Circle do to _you?_ " That question required a long and comprehensive answer that did not seem appropriate at this time given the high levels of anxiety the Antivan elf was displaying.

"All labour provided by the Tranquil was considered the property of the Circles of Magi," Jylan answered in a partial manner. "While our physical selves were openly considered property of the Templar Order. As such-"

" _No._ " Arainai interrupted him again, placed both hands on him with a tight sense of control over his shoulders, then lifted them off so he could- "No! Because that's-" he spun to Surana, "- _slavery!_ Which Ferelden does _not allow!_ Which you _have never_ stood for! That you are _not_ , Soren _fucking Surana_ , going to justify _now_ when I ask how the _fuck_ you could turn a blind eye to what your _own Circle_ was doing to people!?"

The Archmage stood there with the end of his tongue pinched between his teeth, then he gave the smallest shake of his head and shrugged his shoulders, tossing a hand at Jylan.

"He's not a person." Oh.

"You can't just say that _in front of him!_ " Master Arainai screamed out, scandal and fury that broke on the disgusted turn of Surana's lips.

"I can. Ansera," Jylan answered his name. "You're not a person." …

"Soren!"

"Enough, Zevran." The easy swing of his attention from Arainai back to- "You're not a person, you're an _echo_." …

Eyes down, head down, dark clothes of rough wool.

"You're just the dredges of what the Rite left behind." …

"Jylan; Jeevan; Ansera; Ashera; it _doesn't matter_ because that person is dead and you're just the warm body doing whatever its told until it _dies_." …

"Soren, _brother_ , why are you treating him like this?" Whispered words from a more important person to the most important person about nothing of consequence.

"Because I'm treating it like what _it is_." Supple black leather boots and the tail ends of a long black coat, being spoken to by soft brown hide around the tapered end of silver and green velvet. "And that warm body was the only thing offered to keep Templar hands off of the Apprentices _they watched bathe_. How do I know that, Zevran? _How_ am I so sure? Because as the _worst eavesdropper in Thedas_ couldn't wait to have spelled out for him: there were no tranquil elves in Kinloch Hold when I was an Apprentice, _Master Arainai_ , there was _Eadric_. No Templar would waste their time with frigid little me when there was warm and golden Eadric on the bed _right below mine_."

"I… Why have you never…?"

"Tranquil!" … "Back to work: _get out._ "

…


	17. Irrelevant

**Safe and Sound**

* * *

 _ **Echoes of Arlathan**_

Irrelevant

Soren was wrong. Soren was wrong and Zevran needed a break from him because _he had crossed a fucking line_ this time.

Be miserable! Be secretive, and gloomy and sleepless- fine! They weren't at war, there was no Blight, the sky was whole and Tevinter was managing itself. Soren still had enough of his faculties in order to help his city after a hurricane so he could be as miserable in private as he liked! But he would _not_ take that out on someone who had been buried in the mud the social pyramid was built on! _Absolutely not!_

Zevran was too angry to fight with Soren today, not any more than he already had. Whoever Eadric of Kinloch Hold had been and whatever horrors he'd endured, Soren had possessed the gall to _laugh_ at Zevran when he'd tried to break the subject open. He'd laughed and then made a cutting comment about ignoring one of his mentor's cardinal rules, as if Zevran had still been sane enough to listen at that point. Soren had _laughed_ _at him_.

Too far, too much. He'd crossed the line when he'd turned on Ansera for _absolutely_ no reason and attacked him _viciously_ , _wrongly_ , and without _any provocation_ from the poor man. Soren had made a complete mockery of the situation by opening up a sudden door only to hit Zevran with it when he'd tried to walk through.

He was angry, angrier than he really remembered being with Soren before. This wasn't an argument about principles or ideas, this wasn't about ideals or opinions or possibilities. This was blatant _disrespect_ and Zevran didn't know how to separate the anger from the hurt that fact inspired. It felt like he was _bleeding_.

The worst part was Soren had not actually insulted him in a way Zevran could have handled. He hadn't called him a Crow, a killer, a former-slave himself. He had not used one evil word on Zevran, he'd called him _friend_ and _brother_ and then _laughed at him_ anyways. It was disrespect that shocked and cut him, and Zevran needed space.

Maybe he would go to Amaranthine and survey the damage done to the city himself for a few days. Maybe he would go to Denerim for a few weeks and see Alistair and Kieran. Maybe Zevran would take another jaunt through Morrigan's eluvian and commit himself to matters in the far north for a few months.

Hell, maybe Zevran would go to the _Arlath'vhen!_ Soren would never dare to show his face at the great meeting of the clans, and what Zevran needed was time and space _away_ from him.

Before he made any further decisions however, there was one crucial matter he was prepared to address here at home. Zevran was not a Grey Warden, he was not Fereldan, a mage, or even all that much of an Andrastian. Despite all of that however, he still knew he carried a certain sense of _something_ within Vigil's Keep. Soren certainly had his toxic moments, but he was well-respected and being his shadow had given Zevran many privileges within the fortress.

He was going to abuse one of those powers now, and undermine the frosty bastard still laughing up there in his tower.

"-and I don't know what to do." He heard Master Ashera speaking from within the workshop and paused before reaching the doorway properly. As he had done in the apartments upstairs, Zevran stopped and waited to hear what was being said. "Is- is this _normal?_ He won't say anything. Jeevan? _Jeevan?"_ The dry husk of concern was rubbed over the words like fine sand, making them frail things.

"I don't know." Another voice, a woman this time. Perhaps Mistress Valora? "I really don't. Jylan? _Dahlen_ , turn around?"

There was sound and movement coming from inside the shop. Footsteps, the clatter of tools, the hiss of pouring and bubbling things- someone was working, probably Ansera, but even Zevran knew it was not like the Tranquil to ignore his name. If his brother and the Midwife were trying to talk to him then he should have been able to engage with them.

Zevran entered the workshop and stood at the door. He did not announce himself: he would be noticed. He wanted to see what was waiting for him before jumping directly in.

As he'd assumed from the hall, Ansera was working. The tranquil had several vials and brown glass bottles in front of him, and he was carefully measuring drops of the different substances into a shallow ceramic bowl. He had his hood up and his gloves and apron on, his back turned to the two other elves in the room.

"Uuh," Master Ashera did not know who Zevran was, they'd had no reason to introduce themselves yet. Zevran inclined his head and showed a hand to him: he knew the compounder's brother only because it was his business to keep track of who was coming in and out of the keep and the gossip that followed such changes. He wasn't here to threaten or upset the poor man, he was unsettled enough by whatever was happening to his poor brother.

"Master Arainai," Midwife Valora said, standing there with her thin shoulders wrapped up in her black shawl, her long skirts hanging close to the floor to keep her warm. In an uncharacteristic show of nerves, she licked her lips and looked to Ansera's brother. "Samar, this is one of Commander Surana's retainers. Master Arainai isn't a Warden, he… I, I'm not quite sure what I should say, sir."

"I'm his friend, Mistress." Zevran said with a painful smile, not taking much care in trying to hide it. "That is usually enough, but as the Arl's friend I can also undoubtedly say that he now and then engages in actions that are unworthy of him. I understand there is an issue regarding…?" He trailed off intentionally, inclining his head and settling his gaze on Ansera's back. The Tranquil had not turned or taken notice of him, he was busy grinding something with a small pestel and mortar to add to his dish of oils.

"He won't speak," Ashera confided, his voice was lost. "I mean I won't say he's ever chatty, Serrah, but he came out of the Commander's apartments and hasn't said a single thing. He won't even _look_ at us."

"Master Ashera is the Compounder's brother, but I think you knew that already…" Zevran looked away from the Tranquil's back and offered a kindly smile to the midwife. She was very correct. "He came to fetch me, but I don't know any better. I do wish Warden Guerrin were home to help with this."

"You know what, I think that is a fine idea," Zevran knew his words were meant for sarcasm, but there was a bitter gnawing in his chest that went _yes_. "I'd like to see the Arl try a repeat of today if he knew Connor was home to hear him." Guerrin was mild and kindly to everyone he met and took about as much prodding to get angry as a skittish cat gorged on sunlight and fresh cream. But when one _did_ manage to get under his skin, and most talk concerning his assistant was often ripe to do such, he was _magnificently_ explosive.

If you wanted to put one Archmage in his place, then maybe the solution was to throw another one at him and let them scrap it out. Why in Andraste's name had Soren sent the boy to _the Anderfels_ of all distant places?

Ah, but now he'd alarmed the two people who were clearly very worried over the effect Soren's hateful words had worked over Ansera.

"What did he do?" Valora asked him, but it was in a helpless voice. Even if she knew, she couldn't very well challenge the _Arl of Amaranthine_. It heated Zevran's temper again.

"It was only words, Mistress, but they were cruel and unnecessary." Zevran should have thrown something at him, or slapped him, or done more than just try to yell at him only to be _laughed at_ in return. "They had taken up a discussion of their lives in the Circle of Magi, not pleasant conversation, but when I interrupted them the Arl went out of his way to say that none of it mattered because Ansera is tranquil. That the Templars were absolved of all wrong-doing because he isn't a real-"

Ansera was scraping something from the mortar into the bowl and dropped it. The heavy granite smashed the dish and splattered the oil across himself and the counter.

Without looking up from the mess, he righted the mortar, collected the paste and oil with his hands to put back in the block, and then started picking up the shards of white clay. The three of them watched him work, but without seeing his face Zevran couldn't tell if the act was the result of nerves, or if it had been completely intentional. His hands were not shaking but the Tranquil were known for protecting against any waste of materials or ingredients.

"Isn't a real what?" Ansera's brother asked, and the Tranquil didn't find a way to slam his mortar into anything else. Zevran regarded the other elf and saw in the lines of his face and arms a man who had laboured hard for very little. His voice wasn't naïve, his eyes were shielding against a sense of hurt.

Soren could not have been so ignorant about how his words and manners affected people like them. _'Because I'm a mage'_ was a weak excuse. He was elven, he didn't have to champion the elves of Thedas or find them a new homeland but he still had to maintain some _small fucking awareness_ of them.

"What the Arl said was hateful and unworthy of him," Zevran answered, taking a courteous line to avoid making Ansera listen to it again as he worked. "Surana is a hero and I am his shadow so I could make plenty of excuses for him, but not this time. People in my position don't speak ill of our masters often, but Surana is _not_ my master and might need a reminder of that point. What he said, I will not repeat, but I will not condone or forget it either, nor will I let him pretend in private or personal conversation that it didn't happen. Ansera, are you listening?"

The Tranquil did not acknowledge him. He had taken his oils and herbs and removed his gloves, rolling up his sleeves and now kneading the mixture into a large bowl of thick white powder.

"Compounder?" Zevran repeated, but the other elf continued to work. He mixed and folded the heavy powder until it became thicker and sticky from the oil, like a very dry dough, and then he began to pack it into little ceramic cups already set out for the purpose. "I know you can hear just fine, so listen to me: Surana was wrong." Ansera stopped moving, hands covered in grey. "He was wrong to say what he did, and his words themselves were false."

The Compounder immediately resumed his duties. It was like trying to talk to- no, nevermind. Zevran would not finish that thought. It was like trying to talk to someone who had been violently reminded that one of the most influential and powerful people in the country thought he was worthless. That he was empty. That he was nothing but a broken memory of someone he could never be again.

Zevran felt his fingers curling. He was going to go back up there and blacken Soren's eye.

"Compounder?" One last try and still no response, Zevran looked to Valora and the brother instead. "Perhaps just leave him alone for a few hours? The day is nearly done and he may need to just think. Thank you, Mistress, I apologize for this intrusion on your day."

"Anything that brings you down this way must be important, Master Arainai," Valora flattered him, but the worried look hiding behind her clutched hands was obvious. "I'm just shocked is all. The Arl is always such a reasonable man and this doesn't sound like him." Everyone had their biases but Soren was supposed to be adept at keeping his _hushed up_.

"It is _not_ like him," Zevran agreed. "Which is why I wanted to come down here and correct him. I trust and I love him very dearly, but that means I owe it to him to tell him when he's wrong. However, that being said: I would appreciate it if you would keep my role in this matter to yourselves. It won't do to have the Keep whispering about Surana's inner circle turning on him because he was being mean."

They nodded to him with quiet murmurs of agreement, but it was clear that nothing here was settled. Valora tried to make goodbyes to the compounder and was ignored by him in favour of his work. His brother made no motion to leave or go with her, so it fell to Zevran.

"Are you a dice man or a cards man, Ashera?" He startled the sailor with his question.

"I… I suppose a bit of both, Serrah." It was always so nice to see an elf with some height. It got boring looking right over Soren's head most days, but he was _particularly_ unfortunate in that regard. The sea had not been cruel to Ashera either, he had a few scars across his face and hands but stood strong and whole. Not a terrible face either, not at all.

" _Zevran_ is formal enough for right now." But the poor man was also anxious with worry over his brother, and Zevran was not one for the belief that stewing restlessly over a problem would yield results with it. "Let him work. He is safe here and knows his job well, when he is calmed down from his meeting with the Arl I am sure he will regain his usual sense of self."

"I knew things were rough this morning," Ashera stated softly, "But I'd honestly rather have that bit of confusion than this silence. I think I should stay with him."

"I'll certainly bring you back, but I would insist on you taking a break from this workshop. A drink and a game, Serrah, nothing more." The sailor considered it. Heavily. "It will give you both a bit of space, some room to think. You choose the game." He folded.

"One drink, _one_ game." Hah! A fair sale. "Jeevan I…" He looked at his brother and his expression fell, the weight of worry crushing him.

"I will return your brother unharmed and in better spirits, Compounder." Zevran placed a hand on the other man's arm and spoke in a cavalier tone to the hard-working Tranquil, ushering the brother to the open door. "Remember what I told you: Surana was wrong, and he had no right to speak like that to you. Don't work too hard!"

They left Ansera to his duties, and Zevran committed to getting the bitter taste of the day out of everyone's mouth.

* * *

…

He did not go to meet An'eth at the evening bell. He had consented to the rendezvous, but did not attend. Tranquil did not-

He remained at work until the evening bell, then placed the completed requisitions in the basket and carried them off. He- …

"I- at this late hour? Thank you." Two bottles of witch hazel.

"Why are you-? Oh, this is…" A jar of ointment.

"Yes?" He did not respond. He offered- he held out the fish oil. "Thank you, I think? Do I have to mark anything?" Jylan presented the small book of marks. When the transaction was complete- "Rather late for you to be about. Wait here a moment and I'll bring you-" -he left.

…

He returned to the keep, obtained and ate a cup of- food. He bathed and returned to his room. … He was not sufficiently fatigued for sleep, but there existed no appropriate alternatives. He was tranquil. He lay still on the bed.

He woke up to dim candlelight and someone rubbing his back. There were a limited number of possibil- he did not know who it was but he was not threatened. He remained still. It did not matter who it was. The person did not speak. …

He was laying on his side under the blankets. The touch slid from his back to his shoulder and arm. He kept his mind quiet. It didn't- it did not matter who it was.

"You've had a really shit day, huh?" Sa… Master Ashera spoke over him, rubbing his back. The sensation was irrelevant. The warmth was irrelevant. The concern was- irrelevant. He was tranquil, and as such could neither feel distress nor accept comfort.

But he knew that if he was _not_ tranquil then he would have wept. But he was tranquil so he felt no compulsion to do so, but he knew he should, and he knew he did not, but _he knew._

"Yes." It was inappropriate of him to speak. "It has been a shit day." Tranquil were not meant to speak. It was improper of him when he twisted his body so as to see Master Ashera sitting on the side of the bed, his hand still rubbing Jylan's arm. The elf smiled at him. It did not matter that he was warm.

"Haven't heard you cuss before," the tone of the words was irrelevant. "Did you go and see your girl tonight?" Tranquil were not meant to speak.

"No." This was a personal matter, inappropriately voiced. Tranquil did not have personal investments or interests. Tranquil were not persons. He had forgotten. He had ignored it.

It would have relieved the stress in his body if the sensation could have folded itself into the forgotten stink and dredge of hate. If the tension could have found direction or emotional release, it would not have pained him. If he could have hated himself, or been angry with himself, or despised and raged against himself, then it would have been preferable to this.

Tranquil preferences did not merit value. Tranquil did not have preferences. Tranquil did not have opinions. Tranquil did not have spirits. Tranquil did not have souls. Tranquil were not persons. Tranquil-

"You're still struggling, huh?" His body was very tense. That it was uncomfortable did not matter. "Still drowning?"

"Yes."

"It hurts?"

"Yes."

"Show me where." He moved to lay on his back, no longer twisted. He touched his fingertips to his sternum, felt them dig through his shirt and skin as a matter of compulsion only halted when Samar took his hand in a firm grasp. That he was gentle was irrelevant. That he meant to sooth was irrelevant. That they were brothers; that they were family; that his sibling loved him; that Samar had sought built a filial relationship between them since his arrival: all irrelevant.

"It does not matter." Objects did not have relationships. Belongings did not know love. Property did not have family. Tranquil did not have brothers.

"Yes it does." No, it did not. Samar was rubbing the part of his ribs he had stated hurt. He was pushing firmly, as one would to sooth a pulled muscle or- irrelevant. "It matters to _me_ , okay? Do you wanna talk about what the Arl said to you?" He did not want anything, he did not possess likes, or desires, or wants. He did not have the proper faculties for preferences.

"It is irrelevant."

"It is not, it hurt you."

"I am tranquil; I was not harmed." He could not be hurt.

"You just told me your chest hurts and that means you feel pain. Whatever your fancy symbols, Jeevan, unless someone's gone ahead and stabbed you while I wasn't looking, that makes it emotional pain, or spiritual, or-"

"Stop touching me." Samar's hand halted on his chest. "The Hero of Ferelden issued a pertinent reminder to Master Arainai and myself of both the implications and limitations of my condition. It is my responsibility to act in accordance with those guidelines."

"Arainai said Surana was full of shit. His words, not mine."

"Master Arainai is not a mage. His contact with the Tranquil has been limited to periphery engagement as the Hero of Ferelden's friend and body guard. He did not live within the Circles of Magi. He does not have the expertise necessary to correct Archmage Surana."

"Switch his titles all you want, Arainai-"

"-is irrelevant." He concluded the discussion. He rolled back over and ceased to speak. He closed his eyes.

Samar attempted to speak with him several more times, but ultimately ended with _'I'm not going to argue with you._ ' The candles were doused. The bed- it did not matter.

He remained still and on his side. He was not tired, but he remained still. His arms were folded to allow for minimal movement. His relative comfort was irrelevant.

…

Samar fell asleep before him. Irrelevant observation.

…

He was not comfortable in this position. Irrelevant observation.

…

It had been a shit day. Irrelevant observation.

The next morning opened the Day of Rest. This immediately lent itself to further conflict.

"I thought you didn't have to work today?" There was no other viable use of his time, therefore he disregarded the premise of the day. "Don't you have hobbies or something?" Irrelevant.

Mistress Stockard inserted herself into the discussion.

"Oh, this… is not how I expected to find you today, Jylan." Warden Velanna's sister-in-law, a former member of Amaranthine's House Howe. She was a mature woman with dark hair and strong presence, she was familiar to him in the way Velanna and An'eth were, but these connections were not- "I'm so glad you're feeling better. I just wanted to drop in and see if you would join us this afternoon to start the embroidery on the south banner."

"The what?" Samar asked, hovering by the burning workshop fire and no longer scowling at Jylan's array of reagents and tools.

"You're the brother, yes?" Mistress Stockard smiled pleasantly, gliding to Samar with a hand to her heart and- he did not need to follow this exchange, he resumed his work. They traded introductions without him. He resumed his work. "Your brother has a very fine and fast hand for embroidery. The storm this week tore one of the Grey Warden banners on the south tower to pieces and we've finished making the new one, but more hands make easier work."

"He can do that?"

"Of course, it's one of his hobbies. He's memorized some wonderful patterns." It was tedious and thoughtful work which required constant engagement. However, the visually pleasing array of colours and quality of the threads had exerted too much influence over his decision to- "Come, dear. Velanna won't like seeing you labouring on today and my Natalie was baking all yesterday to make sure there's plenty to eat. Rowan will be there as well, and I'm certain she'd love to see you." He continued chopping elfroot.

"Jeevan Ashera you _shitty liar_." He continued chopping elfroot. "Why are you letting him in your head like this! Quit it with this silent act and go do something fun with your day off." …

He placed the chopped green leaves into a large glass beaker and poured hot water over them, then attached the beaker to the diffuser: an assortment of delicate tubes and arrays with a cup of burning powder placed under the largest bottle.

"If you don't go with her, _I'll_ go with her, eat your share and ruin your part of that banner." …

"You're not ruining anything, _Messer_." Mistress Stockard corrected him.

"I mean I wasn't being _serious_." …

Delilah Stockard was negatively impacted by his lack of engagement, but she left.

Samar was negatively impacted by his lack of engagement, and he left as well.

…

He continued with his duties until An'eth found him. He- …

"You didn't come last night," … "And you're not with Delilah and Rowan today like you always are. Jylan, what's wrong?" He continued poaching embrium petals in a tea of aria vandal thorns and dawn lotus oil. "Jylan?" It was important that the solution not become too hot or it would blacken. He would remain focused.

An'eth spoke several more times to his back but he maintained his concentration on what was in front of him. The attachments others had mistakenly formed to him would- focus. He watched the colour leach out of the dark embrium leaves, revealing a white set of veins that would signal the end of the extraction process. If the leaves remained in the brew for too long after the stem and veins turned white then they would disintegrate and taint the potion.

She touched his back, made a plea for his attention.

The stems slowly bled from black to grey, to yellow, to white, and he fished them out with the small copper ladle meant for such purposes. They were disposed of in a small dish, and once they were cool he would throw them into the fire to dispose of them.

He turned around and addressed An'eth.

"Stop." She- … "I disregarded our plan to meet yesterday evening. This contradicted statements made to you, but those statements were made from a position of mistaken judgement. The arrangement of time and routine is not my decision, and the deception put in place around select denizens of Vigil's Keep must be relieved."

"What deception?" She asked, startled by his claim. "What are you talking about?"

"I have been negligent in maintaining a standard of behaviour within Vigil's Keep," he stated. "Although the process of re-establishing myself has already caused instances of conflict, ultimately it is for the benefit of all involved." This conversation was going to be extremely negative for An'eth but it was necessary and he was not permitted to take her feelings into account as he proceeded.

"Back up," she said, touching his arms with both hands before withdrawing and using them to gesture instead. "I don't understand. What standard? What've you been doing wrong?"

He was not permitted to take her feelings into account as he proceeded.

"I have wrongly enabled too many individuals, yourself included, to perceive me beyond my capacity."

"What does that mean?" She asked in a hushed voice. Her gaze went blank before sharpening and he lowered his eyes before he could interpret her expression or draw irrelevant meaning from her behaviour. "What did the Warden Commander say to you?"

"That is irrelevant. What you must commit to is understanding what I am saying now."

"What did he _say_ to you?" Her voice was loud and it was hard and her emotive response was not-

"An'eth, I am property."

"He _dared_ to-!"

"No. An'eth, I am guild property."

" _No!"_ She swung her arms down and then grabbed him by the wrists, shaking him until he looked at her enraged face. "You are _free_! No one is _ever_ going to own one of _our people_ ever-" he did not give his next action the proper consideration before taking it.

"An' _eth!_ " His ribs compressed, throat open: he shouted.

Her hands snapped away from him. She recoiled, shocked, staring. He had shouted. He was taller than her and male. He was not stronger, but he was taller and standing close enough for her to repeatedly touch him the way she had. He had not had sufficient cause to raise his voice si- no. Stop. … Stop.

…

"Legally, Warden Athras, I do not exist," he told her. "Jeevan Ashera was struck from the records of the Gwaren Alienage after he was taken to the Circle of Magi. Jylan Ansera was a Ward of the Holy Chantry of Andraste until he was sentenced to the Rite of Tranquility on the eighteenth day of Harvestmere, nine-thirty-six Dragon. Legally, and in the sight of the Maker, An'eth, my personhood died with my spirit in the dungeons of Kinloch Hold. The memories and physical remains of that Apprentice were remanded into the care of the Formari, but moreover into the legal ownership of the Chantry. When the Circles of Magi disintegrated, we were not freed, we were disowned. As the second member of the Formari Guildsmen of Amaranthine, I belong to my guild. I am property." She was shaking her head at him, cheeks coloured with emotion.

"You've called yourself a Freeman, I've heard you."

"I spoke from ignorance." He corrected not just her, but his past self and his improper actions. "I propagated a deception that was unfair to the people with whom I regularly interact. There is no purpose in freedom for something that is not truly alive. You tend your sword, sharpen it, oil it, and put it to use in battle. When it is damaged, it will be re-forged and repurposed. Any tool without an owner will rust, crack, and degrade. The same is true of the Tranquil."

"It is _not!_ " She shouted, "You're _alive_ , Jylan! You're-"

"An echo." Screaming and pleading against dark stone walls. "A memory of someone whom you never met, and never will, because the person I was died many years ago." Begging, howling, weeping. Shoes slipping against the dungeon stones, shoulders bruised by hard steel gauntlets. Mouth full of blood, clumps of hair ripped out, wrists and arms chafed by lyrium-woven bonds. "In order to take responsibility for this deception, An'eth, you must allow me to correct my own behaviour. Do not return to this workshop."

"I will _not_." Then he would request a transfer back to Amaranthine city. He opened his mouth to…

His family- …

…

…

Irrelevant.

"Then I will request a transfer back to Amaranthine city."

" _Jylan!"_

"You may leave, Warden."

"I will do _no such thing_."

"On the authority of Sergeant of the Grey Connor Guerrin of Vigil's Keep, Apothecary, Healer, and Archmage of Amaranthine, I request that you vacate his workshop." He was property of his guild and had been contracted from their hall to oversee the maintenance and daily tasks of this shop.

"Let Connor come back _himself_ and kick me out," she challenged him. He took a full breath. It had worked once before; it was reasonable to expect-

" _Get OUT!_ " -that it would work again. He resisted the urge to cough.

She startled back, moved several steps. She stopped, stared at him, challenge and boldness failing because he had hurt her with his voice. She was in pain, an intensely emotional experience that bled openly into the physical, because she was hurting and it was because of him. He had hurt her. He had knowingly and intentionally hurt her.

She left. He had done wrong.

Tranquil were not meant to be combative or damaging. He did not feel regret. He was simply aware of his wrongdoing.

He went to the door. He closed the door. He locked it from the inside. The only keys that could open it were inside the room with him, in the Seneschal's office, and with Connor in the Anderfels.

He had done wrong.

He pressed his forehead to the door. He pressed hard enough for the brand to begin to burn. It stung deeply and he closed his eyes. There was muted satisfaction in pain that could be felt for wrong actions consciously committed. He remained this way for several minutes. He remained this way until his eyes began to sting with tears.

He would request a transfer back to Amaranthine city.

…

He would request a transfer back to Amaranthine city.


	18. The Handkerchief

**Thedas Love Theme**

 **Hey there, warning time! This chapter would have been romantic except for one thing: there is absolutely no consent. Sex minus consent equals** _ **what?**_

 **This is not a violent chapter. This is certainly a mature one but only above the waist. It's not violent but it's still non-consensual sex. Because that can be very upsetting but it's the BULK of the chapter, there's a summary of what things happened/were mentioned at the very bottom of the chapter. Just skip down to the end for a bullet list of important things!**

* * *

 ** _Echoes of Arlathan_**

The Handkerchief

He had forgotten the handkerchief.

An'eth's handkerchief had been left with Jylan at some point during his illness a week prior. It had been soiled so he had washed and dried it in the workshop and left it hanging near the fire to dry. The extended heat of the fire had caused the soft linen to harden, requiring him to wring and flex the fabric until it had returned to its prior texture. The wringing had resulted in an array of wrinkles and creases, and the task of setting hot bricks or a warm iron to the linen had escaped him in the overwhelming stimulation of the requisition ledger and his brother's presence.

He removed the wrinkled linen from its crumpled place by the workshop window and placed it over a clean part of the work table. He fetched a length of cheese cloth to spread over the handkerchief, and by manipulating a pair of tongs he placed two bricks next to the fire to heat up.

Yelling and emotional harm aside, he was still required to return the Warden's property.

He placed the hot bricks on the cloth, over the handkerchief, and minding his own hands he pressed and rolled the blocks several times across the fabric. When he removed the bricks and the cheese cloth, An'eth's linen handkerchief was warm and smooth.

He folded it neatly into a square, unlocked the workshop door, and left. It had been approximately two hours since he had sent her from the workshop.

Tranquil did not possess the authority to command Grey Wardens. Jylan had invoked Warden Guerrin's rank and name in order to justify his demand. It would reflect badly on the Guild if Jylan departed Vigil's Keep on poor terms with one of its Wardens. He would speak to Garevel tomorrow.

It was most appropriate to return a personal item to a personal location. Jylan was familiar with the location of Warden An'eth's room because he had been invited there multiple times before her attempts to change their relationship. She had taught him a Dalish crafting technique using threads and hoops, and they had practiced it together on the floor of her room. The location was also familiar to him because it was within the same series of halls as Connor's private room.

The Warden Mess Hall was the main feature of this wing in the fortress, and along its north and south walls there ran a set of high wood balconies lined with doors to Warden quarters. There was chatter and conversation in the mess hall below. There was sunlight filling the large chamber from the great windows under the wood-frame roof. Connor and An'eth's rooms were on the north balcony, several doors apart, and Jylan went to hers.

Her door was closed and he did not know if she was inside. He knocked and waited. It opened.

"You have a lot of nerve, showing up here..." An'eth's red hair was damp and missing its few small braids. Her hands were holding the ends of a towel slung around her neck to dry the locks. She was dressed in a soft linen shirt and wool trousers, with no shoes. Her fire was burning and the room smelled like Dalish tea: a mixture of honey, rose hips, embrium petals, cinnamon, and cloves. The petals were the weakest part of the embrium plant. Her eyes were bloodshot. "What do you want?"

He returned the handkerchief. She looked at but did not accept it from him. She looked back at his face.

"Come inside."

"My purpose was only to return-"

"Shut up, flat-ear, and do as you're told." Her voice cracked on the insult and her eyes betrayed fresh tears. Tranquil had no place to argue with Grey Wardens. He entered the room. She closed the door. He heard her suck in a breath and try not to cry.

An'eth's room was warm. Her floor was covered in many warm skins and furs, her bed curtains were hung with dark blue Warden wool. Her quilts were done in the Dalish style of many furs and fabrics stitched together in an array of soft colours and textures. On her walls she kept swords and runes and trophies from successful hunts and missions. A standing mannequin bore her tended and polished Warden Armour, wearing her helmet, breastplate, shoulder guards and other pieces. Her sword and shield were resting next to it and her white spear, a weapon acquired in the Free Marches during her youth, was resting in the corner.

On the hearthstones rested a samovar: a Dalish urn with handles and a small spout used to brew and serve hot drinks. The copper pot was the source of the warm aroma filling the room, heavily spiced and fragrant.

"Is that how you _want_ people to talk to you?" An'eth asked him, and Jylan looked at her again. She had her fingertips resting across her mouth, an arm curled around herself, and her eyes were staring at the fire and the samovar with tears glistening. She shook her head and then looked at him again, dropping a hand to her hip. "With insults? Like you're nothing? How is that better than when I actually try to talk to you like a person?"

He did not engage with her. He held out the handkerchief. She did not accept it.

"I spoke to your brother after the way you acted with me today," she told him in a thick voice. "You've been rude to everyone who's come near you since Surana spoke to you yesterday. You have never, _ever_ , done anything you thought would hurt another person, not since we met, and now you've changed your mind for a reason that just hurts _all of us_. You _know_ you can be better, but you're pushing and ignoring and _fighting_ with everyone all of a sudden just because Surana told you to? How does that even work?"

She approached him and he offered the handkerchief again. She ignored it again and took hold of his sleeves, gripping beneath his shoulders. When he did not answer, she shook him briefly. It was not violent but there was force in her which moved him.

"You mistakenly believe that your emotional state affects me when it does not," he told her.

"That's a _lie_." She challenged, clenching her teeth. "If it didn't affect you then you never would have spared a thought in the first place! Friendship is a choice! _Loyalty_ is a choice! Acknowledging someone as your _friend_ is a choice! Making commitments and keeping agreements are _all choices!_ These are your words, Jylan, you can't un-ring a bell and you can't un-say what you've said so many times already!"

"I can renounce those statements."

"That won't make any of them less true!" She begged and it was unpleasant but he did not respond. She was in tears. "You looked a Fereldan Arl straight in the eye and told him he'd have to beat you before you'd let him see Connor after the siege of Redcliffe. You went without food and _sleep_ to make sure Connor didn't die in South Reach. You've ordered medicines and supplies for the Vigil that _keep people alive_ , and you always make sure every single day to spend time with Mistress Valora and just _sit with her_ kindly." He did not engage. He took a step back and she followed, her hands hooked through the sleeves of his blue robe, beneath his shoulders.

"You _care_." He averted his eyes. He would not engage. Another step back and she remained just as close. "You are a _good person_ and you _care so much_ even if you say you shouldn't." He did not respond. He placed his hands on hers, still holding the handkerchief, but she did not let go. "You consider _everyone's_ needs before you act and you're thoughtful and courteous and you _remember things_ and you do things that are good for _you_ because you're free and you know it makes _us_ happy when we know _you're_ happy."

"Your assumption of emotional return for such behaviours is not accurate-"

"Then why did you do it?" An act of unintentional deception. A mistake. Ignorance. Selfishness. Despair. There was no word for the absence socialization tried to fill. "You _kissed me_ yesterday because you knew how much it meant to me. If it's not supposed to mean anything either way to you, then why do you keep pulling away from me?" He stopped retreating.

If it did not matter then he would not resist. Because he did not matter, he would not resist.

"Look at me, _Vhenan…_ " He did not resist. She kissed him. Warm and soft and needy, his hood pushed down and her arms around his neck, weight pressed to his body. Intimate. Gentle. Her lips slipped from his and she spoke against his mouth: _"Kiss me…"_

He complied. Eyes closed.

Kisses had a cycle, a pattern. Unlike a hug which served a distinct purpose to alleviate physical and emotional distress, kisses did not have an end result. They were an ongoing process of stimulation. Unlike an embrace where mimicry was easily highlighted and could prove detrimental to the result, incorporating the other person's actions into the pattern of kisses carried a nominal expectation of increased stimulation.

She mouthed at him gently, therefore he mimicked the amount of force. His lips took her top one between them before it slid free, then the bottom, then the top again: a pattern. She kissed the corner of his mouth, a variation, and he copied it. Because of his height she held close around his neck, weight balanced on her toes, and he was obliged to hunch down and place his arms around her back. She hummed softly, then repeated the sound in a higher tone, knees bending, and he braced her weight with his arms before stepping forward to take it against his leg and torso.

The kisses halted when her arms tightened around him. She took a deep breath through her nose, their lips locked, and she rolled her shoulders to pull her chest against his before sliding back again. Stimulation. Her mouth moved free of his but she pushed up with her nose and forehead, trying to lock with his face, and he tilted his head to ensure only the very edge of the brand was pressed against. The pain of full contact would communicate a false sense of resistance.

His heart had picked up its rhythm. He was not immune to physical stimulation. He felt warm under his robes and it was not unpleasant. The taste of cinnamon and honey lingered in his mouth from hers.

" _You care…_ " She murmured to his lips, letting her arms slowly untangle from behind him and slide down. " _I know you do…"_ She dragged her fingers through his hair, touched his face and his throat, let her hands palm down his chest before one circled under his arm and around behind him. She remained on her toes, pressed flush against him, and her palm rubbed circles against his side. "Sit down."

It had not been his intention to linger here. He had not intended to come inside the room. He had failed to ignore her attempts to engage him in conversation. If he remained here then the situation would not resolve itself. If she intended to pursue this interaction with him then he did not possess the reasonable means to dissuade or deny her. Tranquil were not permitted to resist.

He sat on the bed.

She climbed into his lap. Her thighs were warm and spread across his, her knees on the blankets and quilt. She took his face and tilted it towards hers, and he ensured his eyes were closed when she kissed him again.

His eyes were required to remain closed. He was tranquil. His gaze was unsettling. Disengaging. Creepy. He was not meant to participate, only to await instructions and meet demands.

She was kissing him and it became complicated by his need to breathe. His skin was hot and he felt sweat beginning to mist at his shoulders and hairline. Her hands left his face and scooped behind his arms, drawing them forward until he was touching her back. Explicit, unspoken instruction: touch.

He hesitated but did not resist. He spread his fingers to grope and then push his hands up. The linen rode up as he pushed to her shoulder blades and then he pushed down, and An'eth gasped when he repeated the motion up her sides: hips, waist, chest and back. She leaned on him, rose to her knees again, and kissed down his cheek and jaw until she tucked her face to his damp throat and nuzzled down. Her breath and mouth caused a tingle to spread across his skin, objectively pleasant, but not in line with his intentions.

Softer petting down her back did not dissuade or calm her: she undid the toggles on his robe and pulled the blue layer open and off his arms. She repeated her plea for him to kiss her and he did so as he felt the buttons down the white robe release. Her hands slipped through and pushed his shoulders down, his hands behind him to catch his weight. To undress would complicate his departure. However, he clearly recognized the ignorance of that concern: An'eth did not intend for him to leave.

He had given her this idea. He was the one who had made mention of it first. He had stated yesterday that he did not understand what she intended from him beyond sexual recourse, and that was what was happening now. He had stated that this was a possibility and now it was clearly to become a reality. This had not been his intention but now it was hers, and as a Grey Warden it did not seem wholly unreasonable for her to hold this expectation.

Nowhere in his contract was this matter addressed. Nowhere in the Guild Charter, a document he had expended significant effort in reforming via his correspondence with Amaranthine, was this matter addressed. He was without alternative. There did not need to exist an explicit ban on his refusal or denial of service; because there existed an imbalance of rank between them this was implied to be her prerogative.

Any thoughts, concerns, doubts, unpleasant or uncomfortable responses to that concept were wholly irrelevant. He was tranquil. He was property. He was property on loan from his guild to the Grey Wardens. A knife did not complain when it was used to crush seeds. An axe did not protest when used to drive a nail. This did not have to be his purpose: so long as he was fit to perform the task then it was not unreasonable to use him as such.

She unbound his hair and stripped off his shirt. Amara's pendant, worn between the layers of his clothes, was removed and lost somewhere in the blankets.

He had served as liaison to the Templars of Kinloch Hold. Therefore, he was qualified to perform the same role at the request of a Grey Warden.

The soft linen passed easily over her head when he pulled it and she pushed him down gently onto his back in return. Her bare arms coiled over him, her small breasts and the curve of her spine the places she intended his hands to roam.

Her hands caressed his heated skin and she whispered broken words to him between _el'vhen_ and the King's Trade, pieces of love and affection. His heart was beating very hard and when she cut her blunt nails back across his scalp it was cooling and tingled. The discomfort of his legs resting off the bed was relieved when she crawled up him and bade him follow, his back able to rest straight, the tangle of his robes and shoes dropping to the floor.

This did not have to be a wholly negative experience.

His brother had asked him if Jylan knew of sex; if he had ever experienced it. The answer was yes, but the condition was that he had never been with an elven woman. The only elven girl among the Apprentices had been too young for him before the Rite, and never as interesting as Amara, who had been human. There had been no elven Templars.

With Amara it had been suppressed laughter and constant distraction, embarrassments and messes, more emphasis on not getting caught than on what was actually happening.

After the Rite, every Templar had been different. He had been kissed; he had been choked; he had been praised; he had been bruised; he had been stroked and petted; he had been simply looked at; he had been told to just undress and lay down. When the Knight-Lieutenant had decided to change the arrangement of his duties, she had been more consistent. She had rarely stopped talking between his arrival and departure. She had been fascinated by his ears. She had instructed him to grow his hair out because the softness of it was luxurious on her skin.

An'eth's hair was very soft. He touched it because it was different. It was not curled like his, it was straight and thin and soft, warm against his thumb when he brushed it back. The undercut portions, the part of her head that had been shaved by a blade, prickled his fingertips when he brushed against the grain and yet turned silken and smooth when stroked down. Sweat misted her scalp the same way it was turning his hair damp. Her ears were slim and deeply flushed from her heartbeat and arousal, straighter than his and angled higher. When he kissed the apples of her cheeks where her _vallaslin_ lay, there was no discernible change in the heat or softness of her skin.

She kissed his throat and mouthed at him between heavy breaths, weight on her hands with her arms squared over him. It had not occurred to him that she would be this slender, humans were naturally more broad across the torso than he was but An'eth's stature was different. Her shoulders, strongly defined by firm muscle and gaunt strength, were not as far across as his. He could not feel her ribs for her strong flanks, but her chest was smaller than his. She was in all dimensions smaller than him. The novelty led him to touch more of her, which pleased her, and she kissed his jaw between soft gasps.

Her hips circled over his, pressed down, and rode up. It jarred his uneven breaths because arousal was not an emotional response, it was physical. He was young and he was healthy and while he had been under no compulsion or motivation to experience this state since fleeing the Circle of Magi, the response had not required this much fervor to achieve. He was not in pain: merely uncomfortable as An'eth dragged her hips up him and walked her hands across the bed until she was straddling his stomach instead.

Then she lowered herself down on to him, laying completely flush across his chest with her arms folded under his sides. Their heartbeats were both frantic and mismatched, sweat misted and catching on their skin. Her face was placed past his and she turned to nuzzle against his hair, her lips brushing his ear before she spoke to him in a soft, hushed voice…

"I love you," she breathed, her fingers finding his hair and stroking down through it. "And I want you…" When he turned his face closer to hers their cheeks touched but he could not see her. "And you can't tell me you don't feel the same way, not when I can feel it in every inch of you…" Arousal and emotional engagement were not the same things but he did not correct her. His eyes were closed and his chest felt both very heavy and very light as he drew breath after breath in an effort to cool his burning skin.

She kissed his cheek, then the inner fold of his ear, and then the wet sensation of her tongue made his neck tense and his breaths catch and a sizzling pleasure quiver down his spine. His fingers and toes curled; he was physically confined and much too hot.

He resisted; he sat up.

The expectation was to be shoved back down. To be slapped. To be yelled at. By all accounts the attempt to sit would end with An'eth simply overpowering him.

Instead he did sit up, but she adjusted and moved down and her weight came firm and heavy to rest where he was most swollen. He was heavily aroused and squeezed against her warmth, it was not excessive but the discomfort bordered on pain. He was too tender to move carelessly and froze, sucked in a breath, and she recaptured him without force.

"I can _feel_ you…" Her lips nipped at his, they slid and sucked and pestered at his swollen mouth. Her hands tangled and twisted in his hair, pulled at his scalp. His hands hovered at her bare back, and she rolled her hips over his to make thinking very difficult for him, her small breasts pressing to him and then back again. "Tell me you love me."

"I am tranqui-"

"Tell me _anyways_ ," she ordered him. "And look at me." No, his eyes were meant to remain closed. " _Vhenan,_ Jylan, _look at me_."

She took his head between both hands, held him firmly so his face could not move, and repeated herself again. He was not supposed to resist. He was not supposed to open his eyes, but the first restriction was the more important one. She kissed his forehead and the brand _stung_ briefly, so he flinched.

He opened his eyes and was looking down at her chest. Small breasts set far apart, barely enough to fill his palm when touched, but skin smooth and warm and soft even where scars had made it shimmer. Her body was blushing and her lips were plump and red from kisses, her skin still very pale compared to his where his arms were tucked under hers and around her back. He found her eyes and the tension in her hands decreased. He could smell nothing but her, the scent of skin and sweat and sex.

"Now keep your eyes open," she said gently, and brought her lips to his. He obeyed her and watched An'eth watch him. Whatever she was looking for she would not find in his eyes. The heat of her mouth left him and she spoke to him with hushed words. "I love you, and I need you to know what that feels like." He did not have any alternative to what she was saying. "You won't hurt me, and we'll take it at your pace. _Come,_ "

She climbed off of him. He was now physically capable of leaving the bed, reclaiming his clothes, and departing the room, but he understood that being capable and being permitted were not inclusive terms. The brief consideration that she had changed her mind was rejected when he followed where she had gone with his eyes. An'eth was now next to him, not touching him, with her thumbs hooked at the edge of her trousers and pushing them down.

He was reluctant but watched her undress. It was a smooth and simple motion that revealed the tops of her pale thighs and the twist of her knees and the corded muscle of her calves. Her hips were narrow but strongly defined by the muscles running down her torso, she was smaller than him but much stronger.

She looked at him when she was done and kept her knees tightly together, feet tucked close under her bottom, weight reclined back on her elbows.

 _No._

He was capable of getting up and leaving. He was capable of undressing and doing as requested. He was not permitted to refuse a request made from a Grey Warden. He was tranquil and therefore not permitted to resist _anyone_.

" _Vhenan?"_

He complied.

"Don't send yourself back to Amaranthine." He went to her. It pleased her. She spoke of uncomfortable things. "Jylan, _promise me._ Promise meyou'll stay _here…_ "

"I-"

" _Promise me, ma vhenan._ " …He complied. He would not go back to the Guild.

Instead he went to her and he did as he was told, as was expected. It did not have to be a wholly negative experience. At no point was he caused physical pain by her.

"Tell me you love me," …

"It would be a lie."

"Then lie- _ah-!"_

"I love you, An'eth." No, he did not.

She kissed him, and praised him, and pet his hair. She gasped in el'vhen and tangled herself around him. The smell of skin and sweat and sex.

He was out of practice and as a Grey Warden her stamina far outstripped his. The orgasm only left him tired and cloud-headed, and the focus required to reorient himself trumped the physical experience after only a few seconds. He remembered enough of his time as liaison to correct for his shortcomings. The alternative strategy surprised her; it was one he would have preferred to avoid, but his preferences were irrelevant.

It was not an issue of taste or sensation, but the objectively disgusting slime that arrived as a direct result of his attention. He used his fingers and the bedsheets to get rid of what he could reach without being seen between her thighs as she settled with her curling toes and slowly relaxing limbs. The Knight-Lieutenant had slapped him and called it revolting if he had ever spat or cleaned his mouth in her presence.

In the Circle of Magi, a Tranquil had not been permitted to exit a room unless dismissed.

Vigil's Keep was not Kinloch Hold. He had completed the objective. He had performed the task assigned. He had done what An'eth had told him to.

She was winded and tired and nearly asleep.

He pulled on his trousers and shirt. He picked up his shoes and the rest of his clothes. He could not find his amulet.

"…Jylan?"

He fled.

* * *

 **For those too squicked to read it, here's a to-know list:**

 **\- Jylan had to revisit several memories from his time as a liason to get through this event with An'eth.**  
 **\- Because of that conditioning, he didn't let himself argue, question, or resist anything she did.**  
 **\- Arousal is physical, not emotional. Being able is not the same as being willing.**  
 **\- "He was tranquil. He was property."**  
 **\- An'eth's big failing here is her lack of willingness to communicate or check in with him. She mistook arousal for consent and carried on.**  
 **\- When he left the room, he left Amara's amulet behind.**

 **And there's your summary of the reason this fic is marked "rape/non-con" on AO3. ISN'T THIS A HAPPY FIC?**


	19. Values

**Cold, The Dalish Elves' Encampment, Just Like Fire**

 **Jylan wouldn't let anyone else have the POV which is why there are like 3 false ends to this chapter before it actually ends.**

* * *

 ** _Echoes of Arlathan_**

Values

The risk of encountering or being seen by another person within the Keep before reaching the workshop or his private chamber was too great for him to proceed there directly. If he was seen barefoot and half-clothed it would speak of great indiscretion on his part and damage the reputation of his Guild.

Jylan reached the wooden stairs leading down from An'eth's balcony and put his shoes on, stuffing the balled socks into the pockets of his trousers. He walked and drew the white robe on as he did so, keeping the blue one cast over his arm and fastening the buttons with a keen emphasis on speed. The two edges of the coat wound up misaligned as some of the buttons were skipped by clumsy fingers. His collar was crooked and there were buckles in the fabric down his torso.

At the bottom of the stairs there was a servant's entry way which he opened and immediately pushed through. The opinions of servants would not be held in the same regard as the opinions of the Grey Wardens very close at hand in the dining hall. Once through the door he realized the mess he had made of the buttons on his white robe, but quickly pulled the blue one on overtop. He was not often paid much regard: the details would be missed.

The toggles were harder than the buttons to correctly loop and close around himself. His skin felt sticky and damp all over, making the mistakes in his dressing all the more obvious when he moved. His lips were raw and stinging, and he could not consciously close his mouth or breathe through his nose. He was parched of thirst and incredibly fatigued.

He pulled up his hood and felt closed in, felt safe. He could do nothing for the unbound state of his hair and moved quickly through the servant corridors and passage ways until he found their warm dining hall, then struck out again to reach Connor's workshop.

He was still holding the belt for his trousers and the one for his robe which held his keys. He inserted the wrong key into the workshop lock, removed it, and placed the appropriate iron head into the door.

He locked himself out. The door had not, in fact, been locked as he had not intended to be gone for more than a few minutes when he had left. He unlocked the door. No one was inside. Jylan immediately locked himself alone inside the workshop.

There was no tranquil space within Vigil's Keep. There was no restricted area within the fortress. Tranquil were not integral to its function and he was the only one. Any restricted locations were the realm of the Grey Wardens, not him. The restriction within Kinloch Hold had been purely informal: Templars had only remained away from the series of rooms jammed into the ancient Tevinter servant's access as a sense of courtesy, but it had been observed by all members of the order just the same. Vigil's Keep was not a Circle, it was a Grey Warden fortress, and there was no secluded space for him to retreat to and recover. The workshop was one room; his chamber was one room. There were no other Tranquil within the fortress to socialize with.

He pumped water, rinsed his mouth, and spat. He repeated the action. He washed his face and neck, removing the sweat and lingering sensation. Places along his throat were tender, implying marks, but the collar of his robes would obscure such things.

It was not his day to bathe, so he stripped down to his trousers and used the cold water instead. The workshop fire had burnt out while he was gone and the chamber was cold, and the water was cold, and he was very cold by the time he replaced his shirt, and his belt, and put on his socks, and rebuttoned his white robe properly, and refastened the blue robe properly.

He was required to clean the workshop after having pulled out reagents and other materials today. He looked to the arrangement of tools and ingredients, the ash dusted over the hearthstones, and the traces of sand and spills on the stone floor.

He was cloud-headed, cold, and his body was beginning to ache. He had walked through the dining hall but had not taken any food and now he realized he was hungry. There was potable water behind him but he was already sitting on the floor and his thirst was not a strong enough motivator to encourage him to move again. He did not recall having slid down the counter to the floor, but he had not fallen, and he was indeed sitting on the cold stones.

Jylan had violated a social contract by leaving An'eth's room, the only question was which one. Either he would be reprimanded for departing without her permission or he would be questioned as to why he had left rather than stay in bed and embrace her. Property did not leave of its own accord. Lovers did not flee the scene of an encounter.

The urgency was gone from him and therefore these thoughts trickled into his mind in a steady manner. The motivation to act quickly had been justified on the basis of harm to the guild and a damaging blow to credibility of the Formari Guildsmen as viewed by the Grey Wardens. He was obligated to act against anything which would tarnish the guild's reputation, but this compelled him both to comply with the Grey wardens' demands, as he had done with An'eth, and to dodge wider views held by society. The balance of obedience and respectability had been the entire purpose behind Jylan's previous title within the Circle of Magi being written as _Templar Liaison_ and not _Templar Whore_.

Today would not have progressed the way it had if Connor had been within the Vigil. The thought was intrusive, but ultimately true. Connor was a Circle Mage. He was an Archmage. He would have mediated between Jylan and Samar, and Delilah, and An'eth. He would have taken the handkerchief to An'eth instead of Jylan because An'eth was his Warden, and he would have offered a thorough and emotionally cognizant explanation of Jylan's shortcomings and failings as a Tranquil. Connor's very presence somewhere within the fortress would have given Jylan an immediate cause and argument to extract himself from the situation.

The other Templars had not been able to make use of him once he had been established as the Knight-Lieutenant's personal favourite. That protection had vanished when the Circles collapsed.

The other Grey Wardens could not order him about if he reported directly to their Sergeant. That protection did not exist so long as Connor was away from home.

Although factually true, the impossibility of Connor's return to Vigil's Keep within the next few days rendered the observation useless. Hannah had disowned him. Connor was too far away. The Guild Charter did not address these matters. He had no recourse or protection.

It was the Day of Rest and he was very tired. He was cold, he was not clean, he had not eaten, and now he was isolated. He was additionally aware of how much easier his situation would have been to manage had the empty resonance in his chest been able to find release as tears, or fear, or heartache, or disgust, or self-loathing. Instead, he was merely tired.

Jylan closed his eyes and fell asleep.

When he woke up he tidied the workshop, collected his dinner from the dining hall, and had no means of communicating with his brother Samar about the events of the day. When their attempt to speak civilly with one another caused another conflict, Samar threw his arms in the air, swore at him, and left to find somewhere else to sleep.

He spent the evening alone in his room and the solitude permitted him to wash himself more thoroughly than if his brother had been present, as well as to reflect on himself and his purpose. He passed the night engaged in very shallow, fitful sleep and woke up in darkness. Twenty-one push-ups, thirty sit-ups, he dressed himself, prepared his hair, and-

The amulet.

Amara's amulet.

Round, wooden, two pieces joined by a copper pin. The chantry starburst with its faded paint, the inscription carved on the inside. Amara's amulet was missing.

It was not in the box. It was not on the chest of drawers. It was not among his discarded smallclothes, or his shoes, or in the pockets of his robes. It was not lost in the folds of his bed. It was not under his bed or anywhere across the floor. It was not in his drawers, amidst his clothes, under Rowan's book, discarded with his sewing, or near the brazier. It was not in the room.

It would not be in the workshop, but he would search for it. He left to ready the workshop, aware that it would not be here as he struck the fire and filled the cauldron and hung it over the growing heat. He would search properly when he returned with his breakfast.

An'eth was at the workshop door waiting for him before he could go back inside with his bread and apple. She was nervous and upset and sought an explanation for his sudden departure the day before. She blocked the door to force his attention to the matter, meaning he could not search for the amulet.

"The matter was concluded, therefore I left." His answer embarrassed her. In the dim corridor her blush was obvious to him.

"It's just- I'd thought you would stay…"

"My experiences have never tended towards such an assumption." Implying that his sexual experiences had lacked the components of intimacy and mutual gratification that she was smiling. An'eth was smiling. He did not understand the cause of her expression or her need to approach him or the fact that she kissed him.

No.

Do not do this.

"Then we'll have to work on that, won't we?" No. She placed her hands on his shoulders and stood on her toes and she kissed him. It was gentle but not appropriate. "Come with me." No.

"Warden Athras, the Chantry's day of rest has expired for the week and I am required to commit the hours of the day to the explicit duties outlined in my contract with Vigil's Keep." Her face displayed only minor surprise at this before her smile returned. Her eyes conveyed sympathy, the warm touch down his cheek was one often reserved for soothing and offering comfort. Her lips settled on his briefly and she nuzzled his mouth and nose.

"You don't have to work before morning bell, and that's not for another hour- almost two." No. _No._ "I have to meet with the Warden Commander this morning anyways. It won't take long, _vhenan_ , I just want to make up for yesterday…"

"There is nothing to make up for." He straightened his head up; she placed a hand behind his neck and pulled him back down. He could not resist, but he could find an excuse. "I cannot be seen coming and going from your room, Warden." And a reason: "You stated that you did not want this arrangement known."

She kissed him again, with more force this time, and then released him and took him by the hand.

"Then we won't go to my room." Good. "Jylan, _come with me_." Bad.

She pulled on his arm and he followed her. They went to his room and he was told to unlock the door and let them in. There still existed a chance that she desired only to speak with him privately as she placed several pieces of charcoal over the burnt out brazier and lit them. That possibility vanished when she told him to lock the door and then began to kiss and pull on him again.

He complied with her demands. It did not take as long as yesterday. They undressed; he was aroused; she kept him on his back throughout the experience. As it had been the first time, she kissed and praised him. Unlike yesterday, he was not required to ensure her satisfaction because she did not permit him to rise from his back. When he asked for direction she kissed the bridge of his nose and caressed his face and throat gently.

"Can you feel the afterglow, _vhenan?_ " She spoke between kisses on his face. His cheeks, his eyes, his nose, the brand- she soothed his eyes with her hand when he flinched.

"I am able to ignore it." Afterglow: the warmth and tingling that flooded the body after a sexual peak.

"What? No!" She giggled and gathered him in her arms, adjusting them both until his face was tucked against her warm breasts and she was curled around him, one leg cast across his torso under the blankets she had drawn up over them. "Don't do that," she smiled and curled her fingers across his scalp, rubbing her dull nails to the skin and inspiring an extremely pleasant sensation from his head and down his spine. "You're supposed to _bask_ in it, Jylan. Let it cool you down, relax…"

He was pulled onto his side to facilitate her hold on him. She continued to stroke his hair with one hand, and to rub the other across his bare shoulder and back. The room was no longer as dark as it had been before.

"I must prepare to-" He pushed against the bed and was pulled tightly to remain against her.

" _I_ will keep an eye on the morning light, _vhenan_. _You_ are going to let me help you relax a little." The concept of cuddling itself was not lost on him or a mystery obscured by his condition. The insistence that he should participate for his own personal benefit was where the thread of her argument was lost.

They were warm together. The bed was firm and comfortable. Her body carried a pleasant smell. Her touch was agreeable, especially across his hair. Because he was not permitted to move, the afterglow was indeed a result he had greater opportunity to experience than he had in several years. The cuddling was not in and of itself objectively negative.

However, if he fell asleep again due to the above conditions then it would negatively impact his day. It was already a conscious effort for him not to permit his eyes to remain shut as he lay against her. He was falling asleep. He was meant to be awake. Alert. Prepared for the work day. Minutes were slipping by as they remained here. He had to gather Dirthamen from the kennelmaster, establish his brother's whereabouts, and manage the needs of the workshop. He had not eaten before expending energy on her and was becoming increasingly hungry. He was hungry and he was falling asleep. He was going to fall asleep. The sun was rising. He was falling…

An'eth rolled them and he was put on his back again, but it did little to wake him up. Her kisses from his brow, down his temple, across his cheek to his mouth were similarly ineffective. He rubbed his face with one hand to make a further attempt at wakefulness, and An'eth attempted to tease him with kisses down his throat and chest.

" _Now_ you can get up, _"_ she purred, pulling the blankets down as she moved. She sat up and lifted herself off of him in such a way that permitted him to sit up and swing his feet over the edge of the bed. He sat there just to rub his eyes for a few moments, and felt her settle behind him with her bare arms looping around his chest, her breaths sighing between his shoulder blades as she set her cheek against him.

She pulled one hand away behind him again and touched down his flank, the space between his hips and ribs. Despite the care used in the gesture, he straightened up at the touch.

"A scar as old as this shouldn't hurt, Jylan."

"It does not hurt. It was unexpected." His shirt was within reach on the floor and he picked it up, ensuring it was the right way out before pulling it on. An'eth helped smooth the linen down his back.

"I saw the scar on your front but I didn't know there was another on your back." The gouge through his abdomen was obvious from its size, discolouration and the way the scar flesh had knitted across it unevenly. "To scar like that it must not have been healed with magic."

"It was not." He found his smallclothes, and his trousers, and his belt. She joined him in picking through the discarded clothes on the floor. Amara's amulet did not reappear during the search. An'eth had worn her long blue Warden tunic to visit him and after reclaiming the rest of her clothes she required several minutes to lace it up her side and across her front to the collar.

"I'm going to have to be more specific if I want any answers from you, right?" She asked him.

"Yes." As it was not a general inquiry but of very personal nature he would not expel more detail than was required.

"When did it happen?"

"During the Annulment of the Fereldan Circle of Magi." Her fingers paused in their tying, her eyes on him for a quiet moment as he fastened up his inner robe. She made a deft knot at her throat and then crossed over to him and gently moved his hands aside. Words of protest formed in his mind but he did not speak when he realized she was putting the buttons together for him now, not seeking to undress him again.

"How did it happen?" She asked him in a soft voice, fingers busy and working up his chest. He did not require aid with dressing himself, but permitted her to continue.

"Formari Quartermaster Owain, Formari Clemence, and Formari Nasser and I had hidden ourselves in the Circle Courtyard to remain separate and apart from the violence. The three of them had found space in the utility shed and I was outside of it in the shadows of the armour rack. I heard several Templars enter the courtyard from the main complex and then saw Warden Guerrin enter from one of the adjoining gardens. He was not aware of the Templars' proximity to him, and had he been seen they would have swiftly captured and executed him as part of the annulment."

An'eth finished with the buttons and reached up to hold his face gently, looking up at him.

"You didn't let that happen," she murmured.

"No, I did not let that happen." It had been a complicated moment and he did not remember it clearly. He had understood that Connor would die. He had left his hiding place to serve as a distraction, but he had been immediately struck down in unspeakable pain. "I was familiar with the Templar in charge of the group in question and presented myself as a distraction. She did not recognize me until after striking out with her sword: in the dark, Formari robes were all but indistinguishable from those of a mage." Her tenderness betrayed confusion.

"Connor didn't try to help you?" She let his face go and he was permitted to draw his blue robe on over his shoulders, adjusting the garment's fall before she committed herself to doing up the toggles much as she had the buttons.

"Had he lingered or approached he would have been immediately executed." Jylan explained, repeating that point. "When the Knight Lieutenant recognized me she became overwhelmingly distressed and commanded aid for me, permitting Connor's escape. I remember little of what followed save that I remained behind when she followed her Order away from the island." He had not seen her again after that. As a Tranquil he held no strong opinions on the matter. "Understand that we were both much younger then than you are now. My chances of survival without the structure and purpose of the Circles were decidedly bleak during the annulment, and Warden Guerrin was only an Apprentice." She kept her eyes focused on helping him dress, and when she was finished he turned to find his belt, his keys, his ring, and Amara's- he still had not found the amulet.

" _Vhenan,_ how old were you when the Circles fell?" He did not pause in his tasks to answer her: both aspects were simple enough to permit him to multitask.

"Eighteen." They had both finished dressing. She stopped him from unlocking the door by placing her hand over his as he went to do so, and then she walked close to him and leaned her body against his. Her arms slipped around his waist and she nuzzled her face warmly to his throat. He understood that he was meant to embrace her as she adopted this position, but he did not know for what purpose she was seeking comfort. He touched a hand to her back but did not otherwise encourage her.

An'eth spoke softly in _el'vhen_ , and then switched back in a low voice.

"I am as humbled by your bravery as I am inspired by your kindness…"

"The bell will toll shortly, An'eth."

She made a pleased sound low in her throat and then looked up and kissed his jaw.

"Don't forget your breakfast on the table," she hummed, shifting his attention back to the chest of drawers where indeed he had left his food from the dining hall. "I'll come see you after the Commander gives me my next assignment- I mean, and _just_ see you. I- I've been enthusiastic I know, but-"

"You will be late to meet the Arl, An'eth." He would be late to open the workshop.

"I know- one more and I'll go." Swift compliance with this request yielded the benefits of pleasing her and of limiting any further distractions that would keep them here even longer. He kissed her without permitting his lips to cycle through the motions of doing so. One kiss as demanded of him, and An'eth was beaming up at him before finally unlocking and opening the door. He parted from her to retrieve the food his hungry body needed, and turned back around to find her still present but temporarily frozen.

"Uh- Warden." Samar was on the other side of the door, a little to the left so Jylan could only see some of him. His brother and An'eth were frozen looking at each other, communicating things that were only causing further delays.

"Master Ashera," An'eth addressed him quietly.

"Excuse me," and his brother turned away with a step.

"Excuse me," An'eth echoed, stepped out past him, and then swiftly walked off without another look back. Samar's polite deferral ended and he came back to fill the doorway, mouth open, eyes wide, and a hand pointing after the Warden's back.

"You-" He broke off without saying more, a step carrying him into the room before his eyes fell on the dishevelled bed. Samar pointed at the blankets and looked at him again. " _You-?"_ He intoned a question but asked nothing.

"It is complicated, Samar."

"No it's not." His brother stated. "It's me not sleeping in that bed again." His announcement was a fair one.

"I will acquire a cot for you, but first I must attend to the workshop."

"That's _actually_ why I came back this way," Samar admitted. "You weren't there and the kennelmaster hadn't seen you yet." Jylan was holding his breakfast in both hands and walked out of the room, waiting until Samar came out into the hall before locking the door. His brother took note of the food outright by pointing at it and then down the way An'eth had gone again, dropping his voice as they walked. "Did you-? Did you seriously leave your woman to run off and get breakfast just because it's part of your routine?"

"I did not spend the night with her," he corrected. His bread had gone cold, but still contained the portion of butter and jam he had scooped into it. "Warden Athras-" -wait. "It… this is not-"

"-if the next word is gonna be ' _relevant_ ', Jeevan, I swear on Hesserian's ass I will smack you." His brother threatened him but it did not carry the compelling venom of a meaningful act of violence. "Look, stop for a second."

The morning bell was tolling, but they were not far from the workshop. He was late. He stopped and looked at his brother.

"I am here for five more weeks," Samar told him. " _Maybe_ less depending on how the repairs are going and how the winds blow. I don't know when I'll be back, and I don't know if anyone else can make the trip up here from Gwaren to see you or if you can go down south to see them. I have a month to make sure you're doing alright and taken care of, okay? And I'll tell ya I was feeling pretty good about those first few days but, Jeevan, _brother_ , I'm worried now. I'm worried about you."

"It has not been my intention to cause you anxiety, Samar. I apologize."

"This is the most you've actually said to me since Surana got to you the way he did." His brother's face was very expressive. It conveyed his regret along with the softness of his voice. "I dunno if this was about him or about your girl or something else completely, but if you're finally coming out of it then you better know you owe some apologies to some people."

"I will make the apologies." He stated. "I had intended to contact my guild regarding recent matters, however that option is no longer available to me." He was not barred from corresponding with the guild per-se, but raising his concerns with Owain would doubtless lead to his return to Amaranthine: precisely what he had promised An'eth he would not facilitate.

"Uh, why not?" Samar questioned. "I mean… shit, a whole hall full of people who think the way you do and go through the same crap you do, why wouldn't you write if you thought they could help?"

"I made a promise not to raise or discuss the current issue." An'eth had also asked him not to share news of their relationship. It would be two promises broken. However, his brother had already overheard one conversation and arrived at the site of questionable circumstances. He already knew. Samar was looking at him intently, his dark arms folded in front of him.

"How about… you think really hard about what you wanted to say to your guild, get it down to one or two short statements, and then we pick this topic up again?"

"I do not understand."

"Well, you're late to open the workshop and I'm too dumb to go reciting really long things. Think about it, and we'll talk later." His brother gestured to Jylan's hands. "Eat that and let's go."

Jylan complied, and they went.

The day progressed in a very normal and orderly fashion save the lingering fatigue he felt throughout the morning. That his hair remained unbraided and tangled inside his raised hood was an additional strain. However: now that the incident had concluded there was no further need to dwell on or otherwise consider the matter. It was passed. It would be repeated. He was tranquil and so long as his obligations to the workshop and his contract were unaffected there was no reasonable course of action for him to take.

Samar provided conversation and company along with Dirthamen, who was a source of distraction and entertainment for his brother. But the dog behaved oddly. It sniffed at Jylan very intently for several minutes and would not settle in its basket under the work table. The hound remained constantly underfoot, demanded excessive quantities of attention, and overall its behaviour prompted Samar to make several crude jokes referencing animal instincts and basic urges. The jokes were stopped when Jylan requested his brother not make degrading comments implicating one of the Grey Wardens' sexual habits. The statements did not impact him, but they were inappropriate.

Samar ceased, and then issued an unnecessary apology. He offered Jylan a length of soft leather to help tie his hair back inside his hood. The gesture was appreciated.

At noon, Rowan joined them. She had been dismissed from her lessons with the Warden Commander and still carried her book of magical principles along with a small satchel of magically attuned crystals. She froze shyly at the sight of Samar until Jylan bade her enter the workshop properly, turning again to prepare a small ceramic pot of hot water, dried raspberries, chamomile, mint, and honey. This pot and three cups were then placed on the table.

"Lady Guerrin, like, Warden Guerrin, right?" Samar questioned, picking up the name Jylan used to address Rowan and confirming it. "His boss?"

"Warden Guerrin is my brother, Messer. Jylan is his assistant." Rowan was very much like her brother at the same age. They closely resembled one another both in face and manner. Connor had been skittish, quiet, and poorly tempered for games or pranks within the Circle. Rowan was similarly reserved, easily upset, and prone to similar bouts of crying or anger. The siblings shared the same pale grey eyes and the rounded shape of their noses, but Rowan's brown hair was tangled and often twisted into a braid, unlike Connor's auburn hair which had always grown very straight.

"And I'm this elf's brother too, my lady," Samar politely answered the girl. This answer settled before it alarmed her.

"Are you also a mage, Messer?" Rowan asked him, and Samar was startled enough by the question that he gave a loud, nervous laugh. Jylan returned to his task of grinding down ox bones.

"Hah- no, _oh no_ , my lady. That's his area, no one else wound up with it." Jylan did not see which if any gestures accompanied this statement. "I… I'm gonna guess you come by here from time to time?"

"The Arl is supposed to be teaching me magic, that's why I have to stay in Amaranthine instead of going to Orlais with mother." The first statement was correct, the second was not. There were abundant reasons why Rowan was not to leave Ferelden and the majority were related directly to the character and disposition of her mother. Connor had asked that Jylan not discuss these matters with Rowan as he did not possess the necessary tact. "But all I ever do is light candles, or draw shapes, or recite stupid numbers for hours and _hours_ and it is _so boring_ …"

Jylan transferred the powder to the rolling pot of oil over the fire, and once the ingredients were combined he was able to speak.

"The Cardinal Values are the foundation of a Circle education, Lady Rowan. As an Apprentice you will be expected to memorize the first one hundred values as they are incorporated into each of the basic schools of magic. When you select an area of focus, you will require another hundred values related to your studies. Should you expand your repertoire of spell knowledge and arcane ability, the number will continue to climb."

"It is impossibly dull, Jylan." Her voice was petulant and sour. "Connor doesn't have to do it, so why should I?" That was not true.

"Each value is associated with an audible tone and metaphysical tension upon the veil." He quoted from the book she had given him to summarize for her, stirring the thick potion in front of him. "These aspects form shapes, the shapes channel energy from the veil and permit them to manifest in this world. The numbers are merely a mnemonic system to provide you with a point of reference and focus. Your brother is capable of reciting nearly three hundred of the Cardinal Values, the highest of which being a set in the five-hundred and seventy range."

"I don't remember him doing anything like that." Rowan sounded less sure of herself. This potion would need to boil for approximately two hours before it would have to cool, set, and be bottled for the Wardens.

Jylan left the fire and took the ring of keys from his belt, selecting one of the smaller picks and inserting it into the lock on one of the drawers under the counters. He then returned the keys to their place, and opened the drawer.

This was where the money to pay the Chanter's Board runners was safely kept, along with a large wood-bound book with a smooth and dusty cover. Jylan lifted the book from the drawer and brought it to the table where Rowan and Samar were now sitting with three poured cups of tea. Rowan gasped when she saw the journal he was holding.

"His spellbook!" Yes.

"Uh, isn't that supposed to be with him?" No.

"He carries a smaller journal with him when away from Vigil's Keep." Jylan explained to Samar and then opened the book, flipping through the thick pages to find the appropriate section to validate his claim to Rowan. After the first third, the writings and lists and notations for the workshop fell away into many pages of overlapping, repeated, and sometimes crossed out magical wheels and glyphs. Practice.

Jylan found the precise sigil he was looking for: a two page spread that Connor had sat over for three days in order to sketch and align every mark properly. He had used ink to prevent graphite or charcoal from blurring the lines, and much of the page was black from the number and variety of stokes.

"Each mark on this page, according to its angle and position within the anchoring circle, is a Cardinal Value your brother has memorized." This was a glyph of revival and spiritual reanimation, the masterwork of Markus Etrantum of the Steel Age, and a spell Connor had voiced excessive disapproval for during the course of his early studies as Grey Warden and Spirit Healer.

Jylan permitted Rowan to admire the glyph for several moments, then flipped back through the pages immediately before it: the details of the outer circle were drawn in a larger scale, noted with numbers. The great mandala in the middle was sketched on the corner of another page and followed by the mess of calculations and measurements needed to ensure correct formation of the eight-pointed flower. The glyph's outer edge called for a number of marks equal to eight times the eighty-eighth Cardinal Value, four-hundred and forty-nine, amounting to a total of three-thousand five-hundred and ninety-two bevels and dips, all in the correct alignment.

Connor had threatened to throw Etrantum's book at the Warden Commander for making him memorize so many detailed measurements. Regardless of the painful effort necessary for him to learn it, however, he had still been able to cast the spell effectively before his departure. The diligent work of memorization was as tedious as it was essential.

"You must memorize your numbers, Lady Rowan."

"I… Yes, Jylan."

"Silly question," Samar broke in, leaning on the table and looking down in quiet awe at the designs painted across the spellbook's pages. "But how many of these magic numbers did you know? By the way, it's your lunch break."

"Thank you, Samar. That is why I stopped working."

" _Hey_ , you're getting some of your cheek back!" Nothing was wrong with Jylan's face. Before he could say as much he recalled that it was a figure of speech. "Can I get an answer?"

He nodded to express his intention. However, the question required a certain amount of reflection first.

"At the time of the Rite, I was proficient with approximately one hundred and ten values but could only formally classify ninety-four of them as fully memorized," he explained and Samar's face slipped a little with surprise. "I am now proficient with none of them, but have memorized approximately four hundred."

"What!"

"How in Andraste's nick- _"_ Samar cut himself off with a hand over his mouth to prevent himself from profaning in front of Rowan. He showed Jylan a palm, then removed his hand. "How? _Why?_ "

"Because the values translate into physical marks, they are a component in the art of Enchantment which is practiced by specifically trained Tranquil known as Formari." He explained this in such detail for Samar's benefit, less-so for Rowan's. "Hence, the Formari Guildsmen of Amaranthine. However, as I am not technically a Formari, only one quarter of the values I have memorized are related to Enchantment." And many of those again were part of the set he had memorized as an Apprentice.

"What about the rest?" Rowan asked, eyes wide and watching him with great enthusiasm.

"I assisted your brother with a portion of his studies concerning the Fade and the nature of Spirits." He reminded the girl. "As he memorized the sound and sensation of the numbers, I absorbed the related name and form of each one. After a point, however, I was compelled to fill in the gaps left by his method of research." This point required elaboration, which Jylan provided: "Connor, like most mages, selected runs and sequences according to their utility and magical purpose to aid his memory. As a Tranquil, I simply memorized them in order."

" _Ugh!_ " Rowan cried out in disgust and horror, "I would die of boredom first! Why would he make you do that?"

"He did not require anything of me, Lady Rowan, it was simply the most logical and straightforward method of ordering complex and disjointed information."

Samar was leaning on the table now, his face hidden behind his hands.

"I am so, _so thankful_ now that you have a woman." He spoke into his own palms, muffling his words. "Because if your idea of fun is sitting around memorizing four-hundred random magic numbers then you _need_ someone to get your blood actually moving now and then."

"They are not random; they are a logical sequence." He corrected. "I am uncertain how you have observed my working conditions over the past week and not realized that I am not affected by boredom." Samar parted his fingers enough to show his eyes.

"Sometimes your job is kinda cool, I'll admit." That had not been Jylan's point. "But sometimes, _Maker_ , I don't know why you don't just start crying from having to sort and roll all those little bundles of whatever it is. How many was it last week?"

"Six hundred." Twenty per kit: four leaves of elfroot with one leaf of embrium, bundled with clean thread twisted ten times to keep it secure. Easily crushed between rolling hands or stabbed with a knife before either being swallowed whole or steeped in hot water for easily administered pain relief and sleep in the field. "Thank you again for your assistance with the month's quota."

"I cried, Jeevan. I actually shed tears. I was so bored."

"Then I will not make any requests of your assistance with Lady Rowan's studies," Jylan pledged, triggering a sudden insistence from Samar that he was only joking with him. Jylan looked to Rowan instead. "How many has the Warden Commander tasked you with?"

"The first twenty," she answered, but it was reasonable she knew the first five or ten already.

"I am prepared to assist you until the end of the hour." Rowan spread glowing smile across her face and clasped her hands together tightly under her chin, quickly scurrying around the table and hopping up onto the stool next to where he was standing.

"I'll go collect our lunches then," Samar excused himself with a thoughtful smile, and then left. Rowan had her folio of cut paper and a stick of graphite out and ready to begin the secondary lesson. As she wrote each number, she drew a circle and the correct stroke underneath it.

"Two, three, five, seven, eleven," she did indeed know the first five. "Thirteen, _seventeen_ , nineteen, twenty-three, twenty… five?"

"Twenty-nine," he corrected, completing the first ten.

"Jylan?"

"Yes, Lady Rowan?"

"Who did your brother mean when he said you had a woman?"

"Please focus your mind, Lady Rowan. Two."

"Is she beautiful? Do I know who-?"

"Two," he repeated, and Connor's sister pouted at him.

She held up her finger with a bead of white light focused at the tip. She drew a circle, and then the first line: the Cardinal Value of two.

"Three," he continued, hands behind his back the way Enchanter Petra had once recited for him. "Five. Seven."

Rowan made a very unlady-like gagging sound, and they continued the exercise for the hour.


	20. Jealousy

**Being Alive, Sweeter Place**

* * *

 ** _Echoes of Arlathan_**

Jealousy

Morrigan had never seen Zevran so confounded by his own passion before. He was a passionate person, fiery and fully immersed in his own emotions, but not witless or idealistic in his throes. To see him stumped and brought to a halt by his feelings was not like him, and it was cause for concern.

Despite her better nature Morrigan considered him a close friend, a person with enough veiled and unspoken interests to be a threat if he so chose to be, but absolutely no inclination to engage in a conflict. Zevran carried the temperament most days of a cat sunning himself on a warm window sill, occasionally engaged in lewd suggestion and forever pleased simply to be noted and fed. This was of course only a general and very surface assumption of his behaviour, and Morrigan had known him far too long to believe his easy smiles and quiet love affair with romantic stories were all the depth his heart contained.

That heart was troubled and Morrigan bit her tongue to keep from expressing her concern outright, to keep herself from, of all _unspeakable things,_ simply asking him what was wrong. She learned the answer in small ways, over several days. The way he pretended to read his books by the evening fire but went entirely too long without turning the pages of his favourites. How he said he was going for a walk to see something or other about the keep, but returned with too much mud on his boots and rain in his hair to have been anywhere but outside beyond the walls. He stopped dining with her and Soren, declined to walk with Morrigan in the keep's gardens, and was very firmly pushing space between himself and them.

Or, more accurately: himself and Soren.

"He's just angry with me, Morrigan. He'll get over it." Soren was far too cavalier about the matter and it irritated her. He was not behaving any better than Zevran these days: too chatty, too much talk, too little interest in researching his cure or delving into the intrigues and questions surrounding the silence from Weisshaupt Fortress. The Grey Wardens were without leadership, the Calling had been exploited not two years earlier, and Tevinter was in a state of violent upheaval in the north- but he would not talk of these things? He preferred to speak of local Banns and the politics of Denerim? She would not have it.

"Apologize to him for whatever it was you said and be done with this nonsense." She used a sharp voice on him intentionally, testing to find his anger, and Soren merely lifted his eyebrows at her and then looked away, as if he had not heard her at all.

She would not have any of _this_ either. She hounded him, persistently, and all he did was sigh and brush her off and not argue and not _tell her what was going on_.

"I was proving a point to him!" Finally! After a day of constant hounding! An answer! "And in the midst of it I broke a simple rule Irving used to tell me. If you're going to turn authority into cruelty, one must either ensure that one's allies are in agreement with you, unaware of what is happening, or too frightened to speak out."

"Zevran is none of those things," she told him shortly and was given a dismissive sigh again.

"Therein lies the problem, my heart."

"No, the problem is that you should turn to cruelty at all." Morrigan corrected him and received a dark scowl, a stronger bit of temper than she had seen previous. She told herself to make note of this moment, this reaction: the topic that would finally get him to burn again and speak with command and strength as was proper. "What was this act which sent Zevran scurrying from you?"

"He is too sensitive."

"That is not what I asked."

"But it is the answer you're looking for." Zevran was not sensitive. He was passionate and used those strong feelings to fortify himself and do what needed to be done whether he was driven forward by anger, shame, fear, or sorrow. To say he was merely sensitive implied someone so overwhelmed by their emotions as to crumble and sink into bitter weeping at the slightest provocation. Zevran was not sensitive, he was not in his room sobbing into his pillow, he was passionate and he was angry and Morrigan would know _why_.

"Tell me what happened!" They were in their apartments, in their bedroom at the end of the day and Morrigan twisted around where she was seated on their bed and could see him, forcing him with her words to turn around and _look at her_.

"I put Connor's Tranquil back in its place," Soren answered dismissively, meeting her gaze before he proceeded to hang the green robe he had worn today, setting aside his belt and dagger on the back of a chair as he undressed. "And Zevran got testy with me about the matter."

" _Testy_ with you?" It. He had taken up the foul habit over the previous fortnight: calling Ansera an _'it'_ as a way of demeaning him. Why he was so preoccupied with the Vigil's Tranquil escaped her, but not for much longer! "And what could possibly have prompted you to lecture a tranquil mage in the first place?"

"I was lecturing Zevran, actually." Then it was no wonder he was angry! "And the topic necessitated reminding Ansera that it is a tool with an array of abilities but very strictly controlled expectations. Zevran made it sound like the Tranquil would be hurt or offended by how I spoke to it, so I proved him wrong."

"Did you actually, or have you simply neglected to speak with Ansera again since your little reminder?" And whatever _joys_ that exchange had produced.

Soren sighed, shaking his head and turned his back on her to sit on their bed. He pulled his boots off one at a time with grunted words.

"Ansera is _tranquil_." He groaned these words at her like conversation were some great burden. "He's not capable of getting upset, Morrigan, you know this."

"Should that somehow absolve you of wrongdoing? Zevran clearly does not believe so."

Soren made a disgusted noise in his throat, stood again to remove his trousers and then simply dropped them on the floor. He stood at the wash basin to splash his arms and face with water to cleanse himself of the day.

"You're not _serious_ …" He mumbled, towelling off his face when he was done.

"I am," she scolded this time, looking for his pride so she could clip and wound him there. "Terrorize those who oppose and offend you, my love, not the chemist who makes your bath salts."

"You cannot _terrorize_ a Tranquil," Soren sought to correct her but aha! This was not a clash Morrigan would lose as she finished pulling off her earrings and took them to her vanity, returning with her brush and drawing the pins out of her black hair as she spoke.

"You would deny him basic respect and insist on expressing your ire with his very existence, but then turn around and defend him from your own Wardens?" Morrigan had not forgotten that explosive clash in the middle of her own salon, and she would not permit Soren to act as though it had not happened. That he would have preferred to have such a meeting in his office was irrelevant: Warden Athras had dug her heels in and her Commander had permitted the messy business to blast through the room.

"I will treat _it_ like what _it is,"_ he insisted, pressing the words tightly between his lips to goad her. The bed and blankets shifted before the brush was lifted from her grasp. Soren's fingers chased hers from the tangles of her hair and once it was all down he began to brush out the ends, working up in a steady manner. "But that does not mean whoring out one of my fortress' servants."

"Are you so convinced that those are her intentions?" It was base of him to accuse the girl of it. Morrigan did not know the new Grey Wardens _well_ or in any personal capacity, but Soren was always strict with the Joining. Even the mass Joining he had allowed a year ago, before the march to Redcliffe, had involved a great deal of harassment for the candidates from the existing members of the Fereldan order first.

"What else was there for her to look for?" He answered her question with a question, crude as it was. The brush tugged but did not pull on her hair, and his free hand soothed any snags before they could bite. "He has no personality, no soul. There's nothing there to cultivate a relationship with. Whatever Warden Athras felt was curiosity, ignorance, and some measure of perversion; but she's a good Warden and I won't have to repeat my warning to her. Once is enough, and the matter is settled."

No, he would not have to repeat himself. They had strayed from their topic but on this point they agreed. Soren had issued a firm order to his Warden and she would not disobey him. He continued to brush her hair, and when he reached the top of her head Morrigan opened her eyes where they had drifted shut.

"Will you not, please, speak with Zevran?"

"' _Please'_?" Soren repeated and she clicked her tongue sharply at him for his shocked tone. His warm hand on her shoulder was a mockery. "Calm yourself, my love, or you'll put the servants in a panic." He kissed the side of her neck, it was insulting.

"I can be polite when I so desire."

She thought he would quip at her again with something clever or inciting, but he did not. This exchange of theirs was progressing better than others over the past few days, her temper was not baited and he seemed almost his usual stoic self as he remained quiet and unseen behind her. He was turning something over in his head, parting her hair and passing the soft teeth of the brush through each portion methodically. When he chose to speak again Morrigan was pleased with his approach, and accepted the brush back when it was handed to her.

"Are you very worried about this spat of mine with Zevran?" The brush went to the night table next to her side of the bed, she was not of the mind to stand and put it back on the vanity.

"Yes." She answered his question and rather than lay her head on her pillow, Morrigan scooted back and simply fell into his arms where he was still seated in the middle of their bed. His legs were folded under the blankets, but it made little difference to her. His arms swept around her waist to hold her, and she reached up with one arm to hook it up around him to brace herself. Comfortable enough for now. She could see his face when he looked down at her and that was what she wanted.

"Whatever has upset you, my love, you are not hiding it well." She cautioned him in a gentle voice, brushing his lips with her thumb. "And it is affecting you more strongly as the days pass by. I know you do not sleep when you lay down beside me, and we both know it is unworthy of you to denounce someone as inconsequential as Ansera. If you cannot speak to Zevran of what haunts you then talk to _me_ , I am here, am I not?"

She reached for him and brushed his hair back, mindful not to stroke along his ear as she tucked the pale strands behind it. He did not enjoy such caresses, merely tolerated them. His pale platinum blond hair was thin, but so incredibly soft to the touch. It was a trait many of elven decent shared. Their hair did not fray or become knotted or coarse. Some elves did have very curly and twisted hair but it never lost its softness; it never became rough unless it was excessively dirty, the ends did not split or become wirey. Elven hair was _soft_.

In Orlais Morrigan had seen firsthand how much of a detriment that trait could be. For a summer season it had been in fashion for ladies to powder their cheeks with brushes made from elven hair, only to then cover the powder with their masks. Morrigan had burned the set Empress Celene had given her and pointedly ignored how the woven handle of one of the empress' purses had been the exact same colour as Ambassador Briala's hair. She had not dared breathe a word of these practices to Soren. He was not sensitive of his race but revolting trends did not become somehow less horrifying for a bit of emotional distance.

It was no surprise then that Soren did not appreciate reminders of his appearance, or that he kept his hair cut shorter than was the Fereldan style. No braids, no long tresses, he kept it just long enough to detract some emphasis from his ears but there was no length to it. Morrigan was his lover and _she_ was permitted to touch his hair, but not to fawn or behave stupidly over the privilege.

She could share a thoughtful silence watching his clear blue eyes pass over her face, one of his coarse fingertips brushing her lips to mimic her tender gesture. Fallen over in his arms like this their difference in stature was irrelevant. That he was shorter than her had always bothered him, but her concerns on the matter began and ended with his amusing ire. Height made very little difference in bed.

Morrigan sat up and she kissed his lips, waiting for him to find his answer and speak. He returned the sweet gesture and thumbed her cheek gently, holding her jaw with one hand while his other arm curled close around her back to hold her up. She drew her hand back through his hair, running her nails down his scalp, but her touch knew the practiced line to take and sweep past his ear without touching it.

The first time Morrigan had wrongly stroked and felt up along his ears Soren had quit both her embrace and tent so quickly she had not had the time to grow angry with him, merely puzzled. He had never explained himself but she had not pried either. A second attempt, some darkspawn-infested nights later while the two of them kept watch over the sleeping camp, and he had given her such a revolted look that Morrigan had promptly sworn not to act a third time. They had been but young lovers then, interested only in each other's passions as a means of finding comfort and a bit of simple delight during such a bleak moment in history.

He did not like being reminded of his hair. He did not tolerate having attention placed on his ears. Morrigan had never used the words _'pretty'_ or ' _beautiful_ ' to describe him, but she knew someone who had and she doubted Soren had ever really forgiven Leliana for that foolish slip.

"Talk to me _…_ " She murmured the words into his lips, pleased and warmed by how he was leaning over her, his arms cradling her body to his. Slow breaths and the warm pressure of his face nuzzling hers.

"I love you, Morrigan."

" _Talk to me_ ," she repeated. She kissed his top lip, then his cheek, tried to coax the words from him so they could ride his next breath. "Your words will not leave this room, my love. Vanquish this demon: _talk to me_."

They were in their bed, in their room, in their home. There was no safer place in Thedas for them to linger in each others' arms, not without journeying to the Crossroads where Morrigan was no longer as trusting and carefree as she had once been. She moved herself to lay on him more comfortably and Soren's hands gathered the blankets together to shroud them in warmth as she settled her body on his, consenting silently to turn onto her side and coil her limbs around his to bring them quiet and cozy to a soft embrace.

"I…" He closed his tired eyes and she kissed the bridge of his nose again, waiting. "It will pass, Morrigan. I don't need you to coddle me like this."

"Are you a small babe wailing in the middle of the night?" She asked him quickly, chasing his stupid statement. "I think not, and I do not see you as such. It is not coddling for a woman to desire her man's warmth and embrace, or for him to speak to her as equals."

He did not answer her, but he remained engaged. His hand found the curve of her back and swept along it, rubbing her skin gently and forming small circles with his palm. He did not move away from her, or frown when she kissed his cheek again. Tonight his pride was quiet and his anger was mild. He would talk to her.

"I don't know what answers you're looking for, Morrigan." The simple fact that he could admit such a thing was a good sign.

"Would it help you to hear the question?" She offered, and he sighed gently but watched her, didn't turn from her or dismiss the idea. "How old are you, my love?"

He did not expect so benign a question and showed it openly: thin blond brows that inched up, the tip of his ear pulling the same way while the other was pressed to the pillow under his head. He looked straight at her and then his wide eyes swung about, looking for the answer.

"Thirty… four? Thirty-five?" He pondered in a soft, low voice. "I was born in nine-ten, I don't know the season. Let's say thirty-five." Very good. Morrigan slipped her leg a little further around his, rewarding his helpful nature with closer contact.

"The Blight ended in thirty-one," Morrigan hummed between them. "It began in early thirty… And you were harrowed at age…?"

"Nineteen," Soren, murmured back. "Or twenty, if it's been fifteen years now. Where are you going with this?"

"As the mother of your son, my love, I would know how old his father was when he was taken from his own family to the tower." Soren's countenance changed but it was too late: she had her answer and all the dirty looks in the world would not change that fact. "You were in the Circle for twelve years; you've shared this information before. That means you were only seven, maybe eight, when you arrived there." It was young. It was _very_ young. Most mages did not feel their powers begin to manifest until they were ten or eleven years old, but the range did vary. For every child who came into their magic at the late age of thirteen, there would perhaps be one who experienced the change before nine.

"Congratulations on your basic grasp of arithmetic." He spoke bitterly and there was tension pulling through his arms, making his touch retreat from her. "What do you gain from this?" Something that would make him angry if she were careless in sharing it. His temper would mask whatever true feeling her words inspired, but he _had_ asked her a question.

"I now understand why you never speak of life before the Circle," she answered him softly, drawing her words from deep in her throat. "It is the only existence you remember, isn't it?" A child so young would not have remembered or perhaps even known the city of his birth, and if his parents had not been from an Alienage at all, but a farmstead or village in the bannorn, then the name would have been ever more a mystery. Soren spoke in the Fereldan manner but with an educated accent from the Circle: his parents could have been Marchers, they could have been Orlesian, they could have been Dalish and he would have had no way of ever knowing.

Perhaps he did not care where his life had begun, and ultimately no it did not have much relevance in his life at this point. But not knowing something because you did not _care_ to learn and not knowing something because the information was impossible to reach were two different things. Morrigan did not care to know the skills and mastery of a Spirit Healer, but if that changed then she would always be capable of finding out.

"Soren-" He stopped touching her, squirmed out of her embrace. Under the blankets his scarred hand pushed at her thigh and knee to remove her leg from around him.

"Goodnight, Morrigan," he hissed at her and flipped over in bed, turning his back on her. She did not hesitate for as long as he would have liked before sliding forward between the blankets and coiling her arms around him. He huffed at her rudely and pushed her hands off his skin until she relented, and they both lay there curled on their sides, Morrigan's cheek pressed to the back of his neck, her eyes fallen to the sheer, faded lines criss-crossing his bare shoulders in the fading firelight.

What she said next would either make him very angry, or it would finally break his silence.

"Ansera found his family just by knowing the city name, meanwhile the Hero of Ferelden-" Soren pulled away from her, flung the covers off, and stood. He said nothing to her as Morrigan sat up slowly in bed. She watched him grab his warm housecoat to cover his skin, storm to the door, and leave the room. She waited like that, quietly, for a few moments to see if she would hear anything else from him, but nothing came. He likely went out into the salon and would remain there for the rest of the night.

No wonder then that he could not sleep and would not speak to Zevran, or her, or anyone else. The Chantry had opposed his intentions to marry her for the simple fact that he was elven, a sensitive subject for him, and now this revelation added to it.

The knowledge that Compounder Ansera's brother had found him and was staying in the Vigil had spread very slowly throughout the keep, a piece of idle gossip not unlike a crate of something spoiled in the larder or a particular act of heroism among the Wardens. The Tranquil had found his family and was hosting a member of it in his quarters. He already had the doting attention of several Wardens and craftsfolk within the Keep, but now he had _family_. Memories and connections from before the Circle of Magi, a life not defined by his magic or his condition.

It was something the Arl did _not_ have.

It was petty and it was small of him, no doubt embarrassing for Soren that he was so upset by such a minor development- one he had helped to facilitate as well! Why would he discuss something that made him seem small-minded and immature? How would his pride ever survive that kind of humiliation? Soren was by no means the sort of person who could laugh at himself, and he cared very strongly over how he was seen by others.

The Hero of Ferelden, antagonizing and selfishly berating a Tranquil because the lesser elf had dared accumulate a spot of happiness in his dreary life? The Arl of Amaranthine, respected, admired, wealthy, and sought after, kicking up a fuss because how dare the castle chemist kindle a relationship with his long-lost family? One of Ferelden's most powerful Archmages turning a Tranquil into a scapegoat and emotional punching bag just because he could? Soren would rather take the Rite of Tranquility himself than let this get out. His silence, frustrating and alarming as it was for his inner circle, was no doubt preferable to whatever fetid things were rotting away unspoken in his mouth.

Morrigan dropped down flat in the middle of the empty bed, drumming her fingers on her covered chest and worrying her lips. She stared at the hanging drapes dipping down to form a crimson canopy over the bed, and crossed her ankles as she turned the matter over silently.

Her foul-tempered lover was jealous of a Tranquil. Laughable, stupid, and unbelievable as the idea was, there was a compelling echo of truth to it. It left only two immediate alternatives: either Soren needed to give himself a reason to get out of Vigil's Keep for a few weeks and clear his mind, or Ansera had to find employment elsewhere. She preferred the first option.

Morrigan spent the night in a cold bed and in the morning was ready to act. She dressed herself, did her hair, wore her rubies, and when Soren grudgingly returned to the room to dress and ready himself for the day, she gave him space. If he had slept at all then the hours had passed poorly.

Morrigan went to Zevran's door, surprised him by letting herself in, and made it clear that he would take his breakfast with them in the salon. He did not argue with her, but it was clear he had questions as he nodded and resumed pulling on his boots.

She met them at the breakfast table, aware of how alarmed both men were when she heated the water and poured tea for all three of them. This terribly domestic act in the small hours of the morning made Soren guard his face closely, dragging his scarred fingertips over the back of his chair thoughtfully before thanking her and taking his seat. Zevran's mouth was a bitter line, and he was staring pointedly at Soren as if he could silently demand a reason for why Morrigan chose to core and quarter an apple for them to share, then portioned the morning bread as well, followed by the cheese.

Had the two of them been on better terms this morning, one of them would have certainly broken from her odd behaviour and made a witty retort about her playing wife. Instead, Zevran took small and silent bites of cheese and bread, and Soren looked at the sliced apple like it may have been poisoned before sipping his tea instead. They would not meet each other's eyes, Soren was only slowly coming out of his testy mood with her from last night, and Zevran kept catching Morrigan's gaze and giving quirky little nods telling her to spring whatever it was she wanted on them.

Oh no. Soren had dug this hole and Morrigan was going to make him suffer in the awkward silence for as long as possible. No one discussed their day, they did not mention their plans for the morning, and shared no news or reminders from yesterday. There was only the dead silence of quiet eating, and the stilted groan of their chairs whenever someone made the mistake of shifting his weight.

Soren put a hand on the arm of his chair like he would rise, but made the mistake of letting Morrigan catch his eye and tell him _no_ with but a tilt of her head. He answered with silent confusion, showed his palm, and then settled back down. He threw an accusing look at Zevran, who was staring into his morning tea, and the silence remained.

When she was satisfied that they would both listen and remain where they were, she finally spoke.

"Zevran." The silence did not break, it parted smoothly like a curtain. "Your mother was Dalish, was she not?" His surprise came out strongly, he had not expected her to pick _him_ to go first and blinked several times, getting the cobwebs out of his head as the dawn light began to filter in through the chamber's tall windows.

"Yes, I believe so," his answer held some of his confusion but that was alright, it was not a typical subject.

"Did you ever learn which clan she was from?" She continued, keeping her voice mild and casual just to enjoy Soren's alarm as it crept up higher. He always hated not knowing where a conversation was going. "I understand that Arainai was the name of your Crow House, not something you rediscovered for yourself in Antiva."

"That is _true,_ " Zevran told her, his mellow gaze clearly whispering _'why are we talking about_ _ **me?**_ _'_ but she ignored it. He shifted in his chair and drew one leg up, resting his ankle across his knee to sit more comfortably. "But I did snoop around a fair bit while last in Antiva. I traded from my place in the whore house into the arms of the Crows in Rialto City, and I discovered which one it was specifically as well. Easy to find and easier still to trade a bit of silver in for information. I know _her_ name, so unless she changed it then yes, I might know the Clan as well." He did not speak the name of either the brothel or the woman, but Morrigan pried no further. It was his right to keep such deeply personal things to himself and he was doubtless only answering her to try and find her point in all of this.

"You mentioned to me some nights ago that the Dalish _Arlath'vhen_ is set for early in the new year," she continued in a pleasant voice. "But did you discover its location?"

"I had not pried into Warden Mahanon Lavellan's business, no?" Poor show, Zevran, to intone a question when they were only conversing _as friends_. "He was the Second of his Clan until the Lady Inquisitor became involved with the Conclave and the business that followed that. If anyone desired to know, then he would doubtless know the answer."

"Velanna intends to make the journey with him," Soren dipped his toes in the discussion, a marvel of good graces that Morrigan nearly applauded him for. "She missed the previous _Arlath'vhen_ while lost in the Deep Roads and didn't know the location of the next one. She told me she meant to take Ansera with her."

"And what did you say to _that?_ " Zevran asked, but with a dark tone running along the words. Morrigan considered an intervention to keep the Tranquil off the table but then permitted it anyways. Let the two of them snap at each other a little.

"I told her it made no sense," Soren told him, "And then I summoned him to see what possible logic could be behind removing the fortress' apothecary for some elven picnic. She clearly hadn't spoken to him yet and he spent more time asking me why she would want him there than giving me any reasons why he should go." There was much to discuss now but Morrigan needed a moment: he'd called the _Arlath'vhen_ a _picnic_.

"My _point_ ," she said, forcing herself to ignore the equal urge to laugh and scold him for his dismissive ways. "As you are both dying to know, is that nearly every Dalish Clan in Thedas will gather by the first day of Spring. If there was ever a chance for you to match your mother's name to her people, Zevran, it would be now."

She shocked him quite badly with this. It wasn't very kind of her to use him in this way but Morrigan was not Connor: kindness had nothing to do with getting something taken care of. His face went very blank, his eyes losing focus somewhere on the arms of her chair and the white of the tablecloth. He sat there very quiet and withdrawn, murmuring a soft name over his tongue: _Rivesina_.

"Why are you bringing this up _now?_ " Soren asked her sharply, and Morrigan was fully prepared for the offense and bad temper in his voice. "All he has is a name that he found in an Antivan brothel, from a woman who left her Clan over thirty years ago."

"Dalish Clans are family networks," she rebuked him without ire or amusement. "Families may ignore, cast off, or even kill their own members for the sake of survival, but they never forget them." Morrigan spoke to him like a simpleton and Soren was too shocked by the insult to snap at her for it. His silence gave her ample opportunity to turn back to Zevran with a milder voice. "I will not call this your last or even only chance to discover what you may of your own past, Zevran. Nor do I mean to imply that your home is anywhere but here in Vigil's Keep, but it is worth taking into deep consideration and deciding if now is the right time in your life to try and answer your questions about your origins. The worst that can happen is that you learn nothing in your search."

Zevran did not answer her. He was a passionate person and she had stolen his focus away from his anger and frustration with Soren, sidelining the conflict entirely and giving him something that was potentially more rewarding _and_ more costly for him. That last part was the only reason she felt an inkling of hesitation with this, but she had already spoken and the decision was now in his hands alone.

Soren was beginning to smoulder next to her at the table, glaring at the pot of tea as if he could get the porcelain to whistle. _Jealousy_.

He said nothing. He refused to say _anything_. The only motion in his body was the barely-there shake of his head, jaws locked, like he was telling himself not to swipe angrily at something that had nothing to do with him. He had enough respect for Zevran to keep his barbed tongue tightly between his teeth.

"Would you come with me?" And then Zevran did what Morrigan knew neither she nor Soren were the sort of people to manage: he put his hurt feelings aside and addressed his friend openly and honestly from across the table. Soren's only change was to close his eyes so the rampage in his mind couldn't spill out or be seen. "You are no more Dalish than I am, but you have a clear mind for puzzles and people, Soren. It would put me at ease to have you with me."

"Yes." He spoke too quickly to have wrestled and considered the matter much at all, but that was precisely the point: that Zevran made the request was in and of itself enough reason for Soren to accept it. "I will go with you. I will figure out the details from Lavellan and make the arrangements." He would hate himself and no doubt remain cold and bitter towards Morrigan for as long as he pleased, but he was rubbish at these sorts of games when sleepless. That he cared for Zevran was an easily exploited weakness.

"Truly?" Zevran seemed too surprised by this and Morrigan frowned at the reaction. Just how badly had Soren hurt him for his opinion to fall so far so quickly? Soren opened his eyes once he regained control of his petty discontent. He did not look at Zevran properly, but he'd squashed and pressed his anger down deep enough for it to stay out of sight.

"If it is important to you, then of course." His words pleased her. When backed into a corner Soren always knew to reveal as many pieces of the truth as he could find. He was an excellent liar because he knew when to speak with sincerity. "The last time you went off alone to resolve pieces of your past I had too many reasons to worry about just how much trouble you were going to get into with the Crows. If it's the Dalish, then at least we know we can travel with Keeper Lanaya's clan from here in Amaranthine."

"…Thank you, _hermano_." Zevran spoke with a quiet hum of respect in his throat and Morrigan took a pleased sip of her fragrant morning tea: sweet clementine skins and the warm depths of imported ginger. Zevran did not hide his smile, but let it grow slow and full across his face.

" _Does this mean…_ " Better still! This tone could only herald a joke of some sort.

"Don't," Soren complained.

"Will I finally get to see this infamous aravel of yours? The one Lanaya had made for you?"

" _No,_ " he sulked. "No you will not."

"I'll make sure no one lights any candles around it while you're sleeping." Morrigan could see it. Soren could hate her for it, but she could see the tension coming out of his shoulders, and the stubborn twist of his lips forcing them to remain in a bitter line. He managed his next breath carefully, forcing his voice not to lighten.

"You're the half-Dalish one at this table." Zevran was speaking kindly to him again; he was happy. "I am _not_ sleeping in an aravel."

"Out with the halla then? I thought you preferred mabari?"

"We are not having this discussion. _"_

"I think you'd look nice with Ghilan'nain's pattern on your face."

"I'm leaving you with whichever Clan will take you." Soren snatched up his tea and drank deep and bitterly from the cup, ignoring Zevran's grin and Morrigan's outright _pleasure_ at watching them bicker again like children. The bread on her plate was sweet and the apple crisp as she enjoyed herself.

" _You_ , my dearest friend," Zevran purred across the happy table, "Are the one with the coveted touch of magic flowing through his virile loins." Soren _choked_.

Morrigan bit very hard on the apple in her mouth, fighting off the urge to grin and to laugh at the horrified revolt shocking through his entire body- not to mention the red flush from coughing on his breath of tea. She finished the bite and pulled in a shocked gasp, hand to her breast.

"Does this then mark the end of us?" She asked with _dire_ sincerity. "The Hero of Ferelden shall vanish between the aravels of the Dalish, fathering a dozen magic-bearing brats to replenish the Clans and restoring-"

" _Enough_ -" he wheezed at her, cheeks pink and throat grumbling coarsely until he finally moved through the last of it. "If I have to bleed a genlock dry to get enough of the taint in me- _enough_."

"If your darkspawn consuming ways have not dissuaded _me_ ," Morrigan hummed to him, telling the sharp edge in her chest to mind itself. Soren would not leave her and never to join the vagabond clans. _Her_ jealousy was perpetually unfounded. "Then do not expect the Dalish women to be somehow more squeamish. Besides, Zevran, consider how demure any of Kieran's half-siblings would be if their mothers were elven as well."

"They would need a stool to reach their chairs, my lady."

"You two are _hideous_ ," Soren's voice rasped, his nose buried in his cup again but he was wiser this time and chose not to drink. "But my height is a tired joke: try harder."

"I accept that challenge!" Zevran crowed, throwing a hand at him as if this were a duel. He plucked a slice of apple off his plate and leaned back with a grin, considering his options with the sweet fruit passing his lips. When he hit upon something, he sat up again. "How does this fare? At times I still cannot believe someone made you drink a cup of _blood_ , but then I remember how you eat when out on the road and it makes a bit more sense again."

"Truly," Morrigan echoed, gesturing to the table with its soft breads and light fruits and cheeses. "We starve him with our social graces. His Warden nature has him wasting away to nothing."

"I _like_ fruit," Soren reminded them, putting his cup down and taking one of the cool bread rolls despite the uneaten crust on his plate. "But if you're so worried, then here." He pulled the bun open, cut off a greedy wedge of cheese, almost an equal amount of butter, and stuffed both inside the roll before sitting back and taking a bite.

"You will make yourself sick," Morrigan cautioned, more put off than she'd thought she would be.

" _Warden_ ," he answered in a chummy voice, cheeks full. He'd made whatever point he wanted and from there he took much smaller bites. That was far too much butter for one elf, Grey Warden or no. Zevran was giddy and slapped his knee before pointing across the table at him.

"Do you remember that bastard of an inn keeper on the Gwaren outskirts?" He asked, and Soren's smug smile answered for him.

"Not as clearly as he remembers _me_ ," her Warden purred. Morrigan, who had heard this story before, leaned on the arm of her chair closest to Soren and smiled to show she was listening. He looked at her with a casual shrug, "We'd just come out of Gwaren's Deep Roads after starting in Amaranthine. I was _hungry_."

" _Elves can't eat red meat_!" Zevran sneered in a nasty imitation. " _Give an elf red meat and they'll sick it all up! In-bred little rats can't take more than cabbage and beets!_ Nathaniel really did not think you would take him up on his blustering."

"I ate his goat, and the bread, and drank all the ale too." She believed him. A half-starved Grey Warden could do terrible things to a dinner table if left to their own designs. Morrigan had repeatedly failed the despairing task of trying to keep both Soren _and_ Alistair fed _during a Blight_. Monsters, the both of them.

That said, there were still physical restrictions in place.

"I helped, but you almost _died_ ," Zevran snickered.

"But the look on his face when we were _done_ … I am never going back to Gwaren." Morrigan could not let this happy revelry continue much longer, they were practically rosy-cheeked and delighted with each other. She eyed her love and made certain her look was prying and uncomfortable enough to get his attention.

"This is why I never cook for or travel with you anymore," she drawled.

"But your fish-head stew, Morrigan," his eyes lit up just enough and his voice was hushed in such a way that it was hard to tell if he was lying. "I miss that."

"It is not meant to have fish heads in it, _you_ are simply a bottomless pit that would not stop eating until every fish in the pond had been consumed." His appetite had calmed by some moderate amount after the end of the Blight, but any time the two of them had departed the Crossroads with Kieran to walk Thedas proper, he had still been atrociously difficult to keep full even if _he_ was the one at the cook pot.

"But the heads are the best part," he complained now, eyebrows tilted just-so, and his fingertips finding the soft side of her wrist when she let her hand fall close enough for contact. _Was_ he lying?

"That is a lie: for whatever baffling reason you always insisted on chewing the tails. Zevran remembers."

"Zevran remembers," Zevran said, "And Zevran is withholding comments because your cooking was very hot and very good in the cold Fereldan weather, especially my first Fereldan winter, but the things you southerners do to fish would make the fishwives of Antiva _weep_." _Hush_ , Ferelden did not grow the same spices any Antivan peasant could sprout in a pot on their window sill.

"I chewed the tails because you always salted them so well. You can hardly blame me for that." Soren called her attention back and he did not chase Zevran's complaints about Fereldan food or take the opportunity to mock her cooking. Instead he flattered her, but he was supposed to be lying? He was not lying. But he was _not_ lying?

"You're being serious?" Morrigan asked him outright, because she was confused by him now.

"No, I'm lying. I hate your cooking and especially your soup." The temptation to take him by his scarred ear and _pull very hard_ was making her fingers itch.

" _Make the soup,"_ Zevran _whispered_ , which was to say he spoke in a loud, husking breath. " _Then don't give him any_." Soren snapped to him with a glare that finally cut through his nonsense: _yes_ , he liked the meal being discussed _._

"You stay out of this," her love scolded.

"No. Never." Zevran's pout was comical and false. "You can't make me."

"I'm leaving you with the Dalish."

"As if they will let _you_ leave."

"Morrigan will protect me." Oh-? Oh _no._

"If the Dalish want you then they can have you," Morrigan announced most pleasantly, and then rose from the table before Soren could whine or squawk at her. "And I will run away with Zevran to Par Vollen." She walked past Soren's chair, but trailed her hand across the back of it, ending with a brief touch on his shoulder before she was beyond him.

"Where we shall live out the rest of our lives as Videthari sugar farmers!" Zevran trumpeted, pounding his fist on the table as she walked by.

"Well then why are we all still here?" Soren asked, lost somewhere between the need to outdo their ridiculous announcements and to bring them back to some sense of sanity. "Let me go renounce my office and titles, while you two- I don't even want to know. Don't tell me, I'm happier in my ignorance."

Morrigan left them to laugh and exclaim over the process of making Kieran the King of Ferelden and how plausible it would be to have the golem Shale named Divine. Personally, she was rather taken with Zevran's idea of making Warden Guerrin the Emperor of Orlais. Things were not fixed, but they were better now than they had been last night.

Morrigan was very, very pleased.


	21. Mage Telaren

**Already Over, Sweeter Place, Origins Theme, Scar to Your Beautiful**

* * *

 ** _Echoes of Arlathan_**

Mage Telaren

An'eth departed from Vigil's Keep by the middle of that week. Her assignment was routine for an Amaranthine Grey Warden: she was to take a patrol of Wardens into the silverite mines which supplied the Arling and the Order with the metal and ensure that the dwarven doors and devices used to block off the mine's Deep Roads access point were holding firm.

An'eth explained to him prior to her departure that if she and the others sensed the Darkspawn lingering too close to the barrier, then there existed the possibility that they would open the doors to combat the beasts and rout the monsters before they could spawn nests or recognize how close to the surface they really were. Opening doors specifically meant to lock Darkspawn in the Roads carried no small amount of risk.

As with any assignment, regardless of how routine, there was the possibility that she would not return. For her mental and emotional sake however this simple fact was not announced and Jylan similarly refrained from explaining to her that he was not worried, concerned, or otherwise burdened by the suggestion of her impending danger. He was tranquil and opted for silence which the Warden interpreted as thoughtful and suggestive of emotion. She was incorrect in this assumption, but Jylan understood that any efforts to correct her at this point would only harm her capacity to focus and safeguard herself from danger.

She kissed him, made promises of returning with gifts of some manner, and departed the next morning without requiring intimate company from him. He was as incapable of relief over this final point as he was of frustration over one key aspect of their final conversation: Amara's amulet. An'eth claimed not to have it.

This was improbable. This was highly unlikely. This was a claim which bordered on outright falsehood. Jylan had possessed and worn the amulet before entering An'eth's room to return her handkerchief. He had left her room without it. The amulet was either in Warden Athras' room or on her person, meaning she was either ignorant of this fact or deliberately avoiding it. For the sake of avoiding further conflict with her it was preferable to consider only the former as a viable option.

He permitted himself to carry this preference because despite the harsh reminder presented from the Warden Commander concerning his status and inabilities as a tranquil to fully participate in normal society: it was too difficult to correct himself. Attempts to recondition himself to more acceptable behaviour had resulted in outright conflict with nearly every person he had encountered during the exercise: his brother, the midwife, Vessa, the kennelmaster, the quartermaster, Master Arainai, Seamstress Correlay, Mistress Stockard, Natalie Stockard, Lady Guerrin, Warden Velanna, and, most keenly, Warden Athras.

Barred from returning to Amaranthine by An'eth's command, he conceded the point as lost and deferred the eventual destructive consequences of his actions until a later date. Eventually the Archmage would punish him for transgressing and imitating proper relationships and emotional bonds, for cheapening the legitimate and cooperative forms of these interactions, and he would be summarily dismissed from the keep at that point.

Until then, he resumed his habitual behaviour around the Vigil. The workshop was managed; his brother was interacted with; Mistress Valora was visited and permitted to give him food; Lady Rowan continued her studies with his supplementary aid; Mistress Stockard acquired his skill and focus with the embroidered patterns and borders for the repaired banner; Dirth was tolerated.

Jylan received an uncharacteristic summons a week after An'eth's departure from Vigil's Keep. He was not clear on the meaning or necessity behind his present request to appear in the Keep's rookery, but a message from Master Arainai was not one he was permitted to ignore. After the noon bell, he arrived at the designated tower location.

The Vigil's rookery was housed in the tall single tower which capped the top of the fortress from a distance. There were few cages but rather several coops and dozens of perches, the wooden floors strewn with fresh rushes that were regularly cleared and replaced. A simple iron stove heated the space directly behind a large writing desk and several cabinets of important items, but otherwise the tower was cold and open to the air around the Vigil. But it was not wet. Cold, yes, but not wet.

This was where Master Arainai worked.

Master Zevran Arainai was Archmage Surana's close friend and body-guard. He shadowed the Arl and kept an eye on both Vigil's Keep and Amaranthine Arling in general. He had accompanied and aided Archmage Surana during the Blight, earning himself the respect and accolades of a hero in his own right. His nature was guarded, but friendly, and his skills as an agent of the Warden Commander's reach had seen him adopt great responsibilities during the war with Redcliffe. Since the war, Master Arainai and Jylan had not spoken directly to one another on any noteworthy occasion.

"Compounder Ashera, thank you for coming up all this way to meet with me!" He was greeted by the Antivan elf and did not pause at the change in surname, merely crossed his wrists and performed a short bow. It was how he greeted the Archmage when spoken to, therefore it was reasonable to assume that similar respects should be paid to his spymaster, protector, and friend. Jylan's gaze rested on the other elf's chest and did not rise. "Could I interest you in a cup of mulled wine? I always keep a bit of something warm up here, miserable as it is in winter."

"No thank you, Master Arainai." Jylan answered. "How may I be of service?"

"Sit, Ashera, sit, there's no need to stand there so stiffly." Jylan was presented with a chair. He settled his weight on it and Master Arainai climbed up onto the corner of his desk, leaning down onto his elbows and over his dangling boots. "I've not asked you here for any sort of trouble, merely to speak."

"My presence may be required in the Apothecary workshop until evening bell, I had not interpreted a social aspect behind your summons."

"Merely to speak of _important_ things, Compounder." Master Arainai handled his words with a smooth, soft voice, regarding him with half-lidded eyes that communicated things Jylan was inept at understanding for himself. He dropped his eyes again when he realized he had transgressed and looked at the assassin's face. "It will not interfere with your work. I have questions which you seem to be the only person in Vigil's Keep capable of answering."

Master Arainai was a skilled chemist in his own right, however his recipes normally dealt in the realm of pain, inflammation, and debilitation. Jylan had acquired nearly two dozen recipes from Master Arainai over the previous calendar year to help free the former assassin from the tedious burden of preparing his own agents and solutions. It was logical to assume that this meeting now would deal with similar matters, but that logic felt flawed by their location.

Master Arainai had not spoken again. He required Jylan's verbal confirmation:

"I will answer to the best of my ability, Master Arainai." The other elf swept a wide grin across his face and shifted from leaning on his knees to swinging his arms back and planting his hands on the desk, leaning comfortably back.

"I would speak to you of your time in Kinloch Hold." An unfortunate topic, but Jylan kept his gaze on the brass buttons and fine black velvet of his warm doublet. "Compounder Ashera, how many elves lived among you in the Circle of Magi? In general, across the ranks and distinctions."

This was a question Jylan pondered for several minutes. The faces and names were blurred by time, by lack of contact, by things best left unremembered.

"There were five other elven apprentices younger than I during my tenure. I believe there were five or seven mages. Enchanter Elorah was the only elven Enchanter. Senior Enchanter Fissher died the same winter as First Enchanter Irving. In strictly technical terms, Archmage Surana maintained an association with Kinloch Hold." Master Arainai was numbering off his fingers.

"I suppose there would have been more before the Blight," he spoke in a tone indicative of self-speak, not something Jylan was expected to respond to. "But that is not so poor a number, nearly twenty. Were there any other elves among the Tranquil?"

"Not in Kinloch Hold, ser."

"And you say the other apprentices were all younger than you, by how much?"

"Several years," he answered. "I was the first apprentice brought to the Circle of Magi after the Blight, and the only elf for nearly two years."

"Do you think your experiences as an apprentice were much affected by your elven nature?"

"Yes, ser."

Master Arainai dropped from his desk and walked with loud, clicking steps to fetch something. Heel-toe, heel-toe, not the way most would walk unless they meant to draw attention to the sound. A pair of wooden cups, the throaty draw of pouring water, and then the deep glug of something warm and fragrant. Master Arainai returned and held a cup to Jylan which held a pale golden liquid with several herbs floating in it: knotted cloves and curls of cinnamon.

He had verbally declined the drink but understood that an outright refusal would be taken as offensive. Master Arainai was not someone to be offended. Jylan accepted the warm cup, and the fragrance of the heated and spiced wine was pleasing when he breathed them in. He did not drink from it, but the aroma was very agreeable.

"How were elves treated differently from humans in the Circle, Compounder?" Master Arainai reclaimed his spot and sipped his wine after speaking, but Jylan answered him directly.

"Archmage Surana's reputation was considered deeply burdensome before the Rite absolved me of my obligations to him."

"What- they? They held you up to the _Hero of Ferelden?_ " Arainai phrased the question as something funny or an exaggeration.

"The Hero of Ferelden was highly regarded within the Circle of Magi." Jylan explained the matter more thoroughly. "His reputation as a peerless and devastatingly powerful Archmage garnered him great respect and commendation from his fellow mages. For elven apprentices newly brought to the Circle in his wake, the expectations were overwhelming but distinct. I was repeatedly derided as an unfit successor to his reputation by nearly every faction in the Circle."

" _Nearly_ every?" Arainai pressed.

"The Tranquil did not concern themselves with the abilities or struggles of apprentices."

"So your teachers were rude about it, the Templars as well?"

"Yes."

"The Chantry?"

"In my second year I was made to stand at the front of the Circle Chantry as the Revered Mother cast me in relief to the Hero of Ferelden. It was not a flattering appraisal." He had cried for several nights after the fact, and had taken great pains to keep that fact hidden from his bedmates in the apprentice dorms. Warm water poured over breathing blankets and sleeping legs had been sufficient to keep more troublesome or belligerent apprentices too embarrassed and preoccupied to bother with him.

"Maker's _mercy,"_ Arainai swore, rubbing a hand over his face _. "_ I already know you're going to mention the other apprentices, butI'm amazed Connor would have allowed them to carry on about you."

"Warden Guerrin was an especially vocal critic of my behaviour." Jylan had poured many cups of water onto his sleeping bed to stave off lectures, hurtful comments, and regaling tales of the Hero of Ferelden. He did not reveal this fact to Master Arainai.

"You're _shitting me_!"

"Our later friendship was a product of forced proximity, Master Arainai, not early chemistry or complimentary natures." Jylan remembered the burn of anger, but not the words themselves, that had finally motivated him to cast two beads of golden light under his own bed and over Connor's: he had mimicked demon's eyes and scared his cohort so badly in the night that he had woken the entire dormitory and then vomited from his own screaming. Jylan had never repeated the exercise nor revealed his guilt to the Templars who had dragged Connor into the dungeons for a day and night to calm him down. Connor had doubtless been too humbled by his terror to dare evoking memories of Redcliffe for the many months that had followed.

Master Arainai was rubbing his face with both hands, his mulled wine sitting next to him on the desk. Jylan permitted himself to look at the other elf now. His blond hair was neatly braided behind his head, his dark skin warm and smooth despite the few faint pale lines cut across his cheeks and fingers. His complexion was more even than Jylan's, his skin darker but richer, his hair liberally threaded with gold and a few teasing strands of grey. His ears were sloped more back than up or out, delicate but not long, and he wore a polished gold earring in the lobe of one.

"… _fuck."_ Jylan's gaze returned to the array of fine brass buckles on the assassin's jacket sleeve. He had observed but not been caught doing so. Arainai pulled in a slow breath and let his hands fall from his face, looking up with an expression Jylan did not gaze at. "Drink some of that, will you? It won't make the truth any sweeter but at least it will warm you."

Jylan had been sufficiently warm after climbing through the fortress to reach the rookery, but now that he had sat so still for so long he was indeed becoming cold in his extremities. The wine was rich and spiced, with a dryness to it that kept the drink from being cloying with its sweetness. It was warm across his lips and filled his mouth and nose pleasantly with the herbs, then passed smoothly when he swallowed. The water Master Arainai had added to the drink was purely to keep the strength of the wine from becoming intoxicating.

"I'm sorry for how they treated you because of Soren," Master Arainai's apology was misplaced and held no bearing on Jylan any longer: he was tranquil. "He was only doing what was necessary to end the Blight. The Circle should not have taken his exceptional skills and then used them to berate and harass children. I'll be sure to give Connor a proper tearing down when he comes home as well: better it come from another elf than just stay something only you and he are aware of."

"That will not be necessary, Master Arainai."

"Oh yes it will be." No, it would not, but Jylan remained silent. "Don't worry I shall not hurt him, merely frighten him a little."

"Was this all you wished to discuss with me, Master Arainai?" If so then Jylan would take his leave and consider a proper method of dissuading violence towards Connor.

"No, keep your seat." Jylan did not move. Arainai sighed and drank his wine again, then folded his hands in front of him. "Connor _might_ know the answer to this next question, but after what you've told me I think it far more likely that you will know the details. Compounder Ashera, do you know anything about a Circle Elf named _Eadric?_ He would have been older than you, a contemporary of the Archmage's. _"_

"Yes, Master Arainai."

"Truly?" His voice was pitched with surprise. "And off the top of your head?"

"I was reminded of him recently when speaking to the Warden Commander in his laboratory."

"Mm." Arainai grunted behind closed teeth. "Yes, that was when I first heard the name as well. Who was he? I assume he is no longer among the living."

"Magi Eadric Telaren of Kinloch Hold died during the Blight, Ser. He was the Hero of Ferelden's cohort."

"So you never met him?" Arainai pushed, "Then how do you know about him?"

"Mage Telaren was elven like myself. During their tenure within Kinloch hold Surana and Telaren were the only two elven apprentices and were harrowed within several weeks of each other." Surana had been harrowed first, Telaren had followed him, and their third cohort had been a blood mage escapee threatened by his classmates' mutual talents with magic.

"Did Telaren survive his harrowing? You call him _mage,_ so how did he die?"

"Mage Telaren survived his harrowing but was killed during the uprising and revolt of the blood mage Uldred a number of months later, an event instigated by Teyrn Loghain." Arainai showed a hand to him.

"I am aware of what Uldred _and_ Loghain did. Were you ever told which side of the conflict Eadric found himself on?"

"It has been an assumption, credited to the conversation of several Templars, that Mage Telaren fought against the blood mages and was used as an unwilling vessel for a demon. He burned himself to death with his own magic to prevent possession and was aided in that effort by the Templars who witnessed the event firsthand. He was posthumously absolved of participation in Blood Magic and his name was carved into the memorial wall of Kinloch Hold for death in service to the Circle."

"Then let it be that Andraste helped guide his spirit to the Maker's side…" Master Arainai seemed gravely disappointed in all that Jylan had said, and they both drank the fragrant wine. Several quiet minutes passed with only the tapping of rain on the tower shingles, before the assassin spoke again.

"He was an elf like you and I, Ashera, but why did I intrude on a conversation about _Templars_ that used his name so freely?" It would not be tactful to answer this question truthfully, but Jylan was tranquil and thus did not possess the social skill of tact in any great capacity.

"It is an unpleasant consideration."

"I would hear it anyways, unless it would upset you personally to speak of it."

"I do not experience the conflict and anxiety of upset emotions, Master Arainai, I am tranquil."

"You're anxious enough to warn me, however." The words smiled at him but Jylan considered it a flaw in progressive logic.

"I am not anxious, ser, but I am not ignorant of emotional distress in others. If you are decided then I will not withhold the answer." Master Arainai considered his words in deep silence for several minutes, then interrupted the moment by standing and walking to the iron stove behind his desk. The front grate was opened, a split log inserted into the mouth, and then the elf walked back and reclaimed his place on the corner of his desk. He spoke with a firm, ready voice.

"What did the Templars do to Eadric Telaren?"

Jylan answered him.

"He was sexually exploited by a member of the Templar Order who claimed deep and earnest affection for him. The arrangement endured for several years but ended when Telaren was killed, and his Templar abandoned the Order presumably from his staggering grief over the matter."

"How do you know about this?"

"When I became tranquil I was assigned the role of Templar Liaison because I am elven, and this fact inspired several veteran members of the order to recall and share the tale of the Knight Captain and his Gold-haired elf. I was often summoned for these tellings so that my physical appearance could be described in contrast with Mage Telaren's. That many of Kinloch Hold's Templars had seen Archmage Surana and knew of his connection to Telaren usually contributed to the description of his dead cohort."

"They say the Knight Captain _loved_ him?"

"With much derision and little confidence, yes." Jylan elaborated this point further: "There existed an age difference of some twenty or more years between the two of them, casting doubt on claims of mutual love. That Telaren was an apprentice made the story intolerable in Knight Commander Greagoire's presence and he once had a junior Templar lashed for repeating the tale in his hearing. That Telaren was a mage and not one of the Tranquil caused further derision from others. His presumed suicide during the Blight was not often described as romantic, but as a product of either guilt or delusion."

Master Arainai's breaths were tight. He was taking slow, controlled breaths and letting them out with great control and tension. His hands were gripping the front edge of his desk, his ankles crossed but legs hanging stiff.

"What I am going to ask you now is not to leave this chamber, understood?"

"Yes, Master Arainai."

"Did anyone know what was happening to Telaren _while it was happening_ , or only after?"

"I understood that the matter was treated much the same as if Telaren were to be made Tranquil: widely known but never spoken of."

"Did the Templars ever, and I do mean _ever_ , so much as _imply_ , that the same thing happened to Surana?"

"With confidence I can say that no, Master Arainai, the Warden Commander of Ferelden was not sexually exploited by the Templars of Kinloch Hold."

Master Arainai let out a slow, long, uncomfortable breath. His hands flexed to ease their grip, but he was shaking his head.

"May I ask where this confidence comes from?"

"Several junior Templars often made similar inquiries and were either hushed or laughed at. Surana was too ugly."

" _What?_ " He was shocked again, the dimming daylight reflecting off his polished buttons. "I mean- _good_ , but- blond hair and blue eyes? He would not have had any of his scars yet- I do not know what he would have looked like in his adolescence but-? _Ugly?_ Are you quite serious?"

"In comparison to Mage Telaren, and based on the accounts of the Templars, then yes: Surana was considered plain and displeasing." He ended his statement here, but Arainai was not satisfied, he gestured to ask if there was anything else to be said. Therefore, Jylan spoke: "His manners were too contrary; he did not speak or smile or play; his skin was pale and his hair was very white and the victim of clumsy scissors and dull knives which kept it short. He himself was very short, therefore it was occasionally stated that to touch him would have been to lay with a frozen, poorly tempered child. More flattering accounts of the Hero of Ferelden's appearance usually served only to highlight Telaren's comparable beauty."

"I'm sorry for making you discuss so many awful things with me today…" Master Arainai's second apology was abrupt and as unnecessary as the first one. "Maker, I knew the Circles could not have been how he always described them, but to have the reality be _so different_ from the stories is just… I almost do not want to ask this, but you were sent from the room last time and as much as I know I can infer, on this matter I would have it stated plainly. Compounder Ashera, forgive me for these painful memories, but were _you_ also abused in this way by the Circle?"

"I am not in pain, Master Arainai, I am tranquil." It was necessary to make this statement first. "And no, as an apprentice I was not sought after or taken advantage of. As you stated a few moments ago Arl Surana follows an ideal for elves: he is blond, and pale, with blue eyes. The only comments made to me were before I was given the Rite of Tranquility: that it was unfortunate that they should choose an elf who did not match the ideal. I believe the final word on the matter was _'The Maker Provides as the Maker Sees Fit'_. What followed only came after the completion of the Rite."

"And because you were Tranquil they could pretend that their actions had no consequence?" There was a thickness in his voice, and the words were muffled by the fall of his fingers across his mouth.

"Consequences require an effect to follow an offending action. As their actions had no effect, no, there were no consequences."

"I once thought as you do, that if I had no power or control over what was happening then the only inch I could keep for myself was to refuse to be hurt by it at all." His statement betrayed a strong sense of intimacy: that he would imply a mutual trauma between them. Jylan was not unaware of the possible implications, of the act Master Arainai took of seeking to build an emotional bond, but it was a flawed effort. "That is not how you have to live, Ashera, not anymore."

"You are not tranquil, Master Arainai." Jylan told him, rebuffing the effort. "Mental and emotional fortitude may hold or fail you, but as you are not tranquil you do not understand the absence and ineffective nature of hurtful or harmful behaviour. Once an unpleasant event is passed it is done, and all that remains are lingering physical signs of exertion or discomfort which are easily mediated by rest and food."

"It was-"

"I was not raped, ser." Jylan interrupted him. "Rape would require a sense of violation or humiliation, neither of which affect me or are present. Rape would imply that what occurred was resisted, or unwanted, when I am incapable of forming desires and forbidden from resisting. If one cannot feel warm then one will never be cold. If one cannot feel love then one can never be lonely. If one cannot feel desire then one will never be compelled."

"Sex is not hot and cold!" Arainai shouted at him, his temper quickly igniting as he dropped his feet and stood. The sudden volume of his voice was unpleasant. "Sex is not love- but it _is_ desire and the opposite of wanting something isn't to just not want it, it's to _refuse_! There is no middle ground with sex, Ashera, you either want it or it is rape. You either want your partner with you and on you or it is rape. You either agree or you are violated _and there is no way around that!_ "

"It is apparent that this topic has inspired keen feelings of distress and a powerful but negative emotional reaction in you, Master Arainai. Therefore, it is necessary that I-"

"Don't you dare weasel your way out of this! Look at me!"

"I will not engage with your aggression, ser." He kept his eyes down.

" _Look at me!_ " Jylan stood, but he kept his eyes down. He would leave now. "Ashera!"

"I must return to the workshop." He turned away and took a step, but his arm was snatched and pulled. He lost his balance and his weight rocked to his heels, turning him and nearly bringing him into a tumble but for Master Arainai's harsh grip above his elbow. He was held fiercely and in a twisted position, his eyes directed up at the assassin's angry gaze.

He had made a mistake: he had attempted to leave without being dismissed. He would be punished.

He would be struck, likely across the mouth. He would be pushed down the rookery stairs. He would be shaken and shoved, or his wrist and fingers would be painfully twisted to cause him great pain. He was not afraid of these things but he was aware of them. He was tranquil.

"It has to bother you," Master Arainai stated in a hushed voice, still holding his arm tightly. The angle of the hold changed, began to relax and permitted him to stand properly again. He was not released, and Master Arainai was not calm. His eyes were searching Jylan's face over and over, his eyes rimmed with red, teeth locked, and he gently began to shake his head. "It _has_ to."

Jylan considered silence. If he permitted the quiet to hold Master Arainai then it was possible that he would release Jylan's arm and allow him to leave. If he spoke, it risked instigating the expected violence.

Master Arainai's grip began to loosen. When his hand left Jylan's arm completely, he spoke:

"The only one who is capable of being bothered by this is you, Master Arainai." He spoke softly, in a low voice, and held eye-contact with the deeply distressed elf in front of him. "I am tranquil, ser. Archmage Surana understands and may explain my condition in full to you at his leisure. May I return to my duties?" Arainai curled his lips into his mouth, pursed them until they turned white. Then he nodded and gestured with a hand for Jylan to leave.

He took that dismissal and went directly back to the workshop, his brother Samar, and his obligations to the keep. He did not discuss his conversation with Master Arainai.

* * *

"I had a talk with your _favourite Tranquil_ today."

Soren frowned hard at him but Zevran did not keep the hurt sound from his voice. His friend dismissed the clerk he had been speaking to with a hand, and with a tight huff inclined his head for Zevran to walk through the corridor with him. Zevran accepted the offer, and fell in step beside his friend.

"I thought we were past this?" Soren asked him, walking to Zevran's right so his pauldron's high silver wing wasn't in the way between them. "What did he tell you?"

"A lot more than you have." Zevran was hurt, and he wanted it known, and he took just a touch more speed so that he was the one directing the two of them around the next corner, and up the right set of stairs. They came to an alcove with three lattice-woven windows, a view down into the Vigil's gardens open to them through the bubbled glass. It was quiet and it was private and the cold seeping through the windows offered a coolness against Zevran's cheek and throat that was welcome. "I know about Eadric."

Soren turned and rested his back against the window sill, folding his arms and crossing one ankle over the other in a very casual way. His armour caught the pale grey light and shimmered down the silverite weave of his tunic, his gauntlets tucked into his belt and the red of his scarred fingers bright where they held his arms. He shrugged and shook his head at the statement.

"Then why are we here?"

Zevran stepped right into his space, crowded him on purpose, and the act made Soren startle and look at him properly. No dismissive side-eye or half-lidded gaze. _Look at him_.

"Was he your friend?"

"What-? _Yes._ " Soren dropped his arms and used his hands to push on the sill, regretting his casual lean now as Zevran stayed too close for him to climb out of it properly. "Zevran, yes he was. Stop this."

"Did you _know_ what was happening to him?" Soren put a hand on his chest, braced it hard, and made Zevran take a step back so he could stand the way he wanted to. Zevran kept pushing on him however, refused to stop crowding him. "All those years- did you _know?_ " _Answer him_.

" _Yes_." Soren's voice was hard, but his eyes were all over the place. He would not look at Zevran's face, he was looking at his shoulder, then his arm, then off down the stairs, then back to him but at the buttons down his chest. "Of course I knew, his bed was below mine."

" _Then why didn't you help him!?_ " It came out with the hateful blast of thunder and cold pain. Soren recoiled from his voice completely, his pauldron scraping the window when he jumped. " _He was your classmate! Your friend!_ You knew what was happening and you did _nothing to help him!_ "

"I did _not!"_ Soren shouted back at him, but it was thin and brittle like the glass behind him. "You have _no idea_ what you're talking about- and neither does Ansera!" _Liar_.

Zevran grabbed him, _shook him_ , gave him a hard slam against the window and _held him like that_.

"He was elven and you _sold him out_ to the Templars," Zevran accused with a black and _boiling_ hatred in his chest. "You said it yourself: who could want _icy little Surana_ when there was his golden-haired brother right below him in the dark? It benefited you! It kept them _away_ from you! You knew _and you let it happen!_ "

" _No-"_ The hundred things Soren could have done between his magic and the taint to get Zevran off of him never happened. Soren grabbed his wrists and tried to pull him off, but it was not enough. "Zevran- _stop_ -" He did not fight back because he was _guilty_. He was a _liar_. He'd _let it happen!_

"You treated him _exactly_ the same way you treated Jowan-" Backstabbed to further himself in the Circle, complete and utter betrayal just to curry favour with the First Enchanter. Soren's reasons for Jowan's anger with him had been hidden and ignored until the Guardian of Andraste's Ashes had spat out the truth for them to hear, and now years later it was a Tranquil who brought Eadric's story to light! "The same way you would feed _me_ to the dogs if you thought it would benefit you in some way!"

Soren's hands dropped. He went limp and his eyes came up searching Zevran's face. Let him feel blinded. Let him be shocked. It was only fair after what Zevran had learned today and what he had to put up with never knowing about the bastard in front of him.

That hurt look was _fake_ , like the rest of him!

The tug and peel of his thin lips- another fucking ruse!

The tears that- tears?

"I switched beds with him." He was too proud for tears. They glistened but did not fall, the blue of his eyes veiled with pain, his jaws finding their place to lock as the muted tremble in his lips was reigned in by how tight he pulled them. His words were harsh things, barely spoken from the depths of his rattled chest. "After the Revered Mother bruised and broke my fingers for _slander_ against the Order. For _disrespecting_ a man so deeply committed to his holy calling for _my_ protection. _'How dare you? How dare you? How dare you?'_ And when I was allowed out of the cell they put me in, and my fingers were put back together, and I _knew what was happening_ , Master Arainai, I switched beds with him."

Zevran eased his grip, stopped pushing him against the window. It had taken _so much_ to break his silence and Zevran let his hands slowly fall from Soren's armour.

"And then what happened?" He asked quietly, a cold thread of fear weaving through his lungs. Ansera had told him no, nothing had ever happened to Soren, but Ansera had only had heresay of Templars who had not been there to inform him. Soren's eyes fell briefly to the collar of Zevran's shirt, then shook and carried their way back up to gaze at him properly. He shook his head, gave a shrug.

"What? You think he couldn't tell two knife-eared brats apart?" Soren asked him harshly, cutting at him on purpose. "I don't remember what happened; I woke up in one of the Healers' apartments with a scar beaten into my scalp. No one talked about it after that. It was _settled_ after that. I was thirteen years old, Zevran, and I did _everything I knew how_." Thirteen-?

"Soren-"

" _Get away from me_." Vicious words hissed between his teeth, his eyes red and washed with those stubbornly held tears. He wasn't angry enough to _be_ angry, it was a front Zevran had seen before but never to cover this emotion specifically. He realized it far too late: he'd _hurt_ him.

"Soren, I'm sorry-"

"No you're not!" Soren escaped from the window but turned on him harshly before going a step further, teeth bare and fury colouring his cheeks, but his eyes were still _weeping_. "You're just embarrassed because your _'gotcha!'_ moment didn't work! You'll accuse me of stabbing you in the back when the only knives here are yours! Did I harass you over Rinna? Did I chase and yell at you about your fucking mother? _No!_ But who gives a damn about that when _you've_ got delusions of holding the moral high ground!"

"You're not yourself-" Zevran pleaded and he regretted how he had brought them to this corner and not somewhere safe within the apartment's private doors. "I had find answers, how can I _help you_ without _-?_ "

"What good is having you around when I can't trust you to _listen to a Maker-damned word_ I say!" Soren screamed over him and brought his anger to bear and shroud his pain. "You're not helping me! You don't _want_ to help me! All you've ever wanted is to keep your own skin safe, so now that there's blood in the water you won't stop biting _and biting_ until you've got enough of me left raw to control me how you like! You'll go interrogating a _puppet_ that wouldn't know the first sign of intrigue if you jammed a knife between his ribs, and Maker Preserve Us if you'll stop and give a _single moment's pause_ to wonder why I don't want anything to do with this! This is how you wanted to hurt me?"

" _No-_ " he managed to croak only one word.

"Well _pat yourself on the back,_ Zevran!" Soren had wept. Only one tear from each eye, but it was still too much. His voice fell from its raw yelling to a vicious hiss meant to threaten and strike thin and lethal through his heart: "Now walk away before I can find a pack of dogs that can handle you."

" _Brother, I'm sorry,_ " he pleaded back in his mother tongue, Antivan words that-

" _I don't give a damn!"_ Soren snarled back at him in the same tragic language. " _I'm not Taliesen! I won't be cut down just to prove you're somehow better than me!"_ It _hurt_ -

"I'm sorry-" he choked again. He'd done enough damage; he should have gone to Morrigan first. He had made a mess of things. This was not how trust was meant to work. "Soren, I'm…"

Trust was when you told someone about a part of you that still ached sometimes, and knew they would not cut you again in the same place. Trust was the _willingness_ to say something, which Soren had not been and Zevran had not respected. Trust was agreeing not to open old wounds when starting a new fight, something _neither_ of them had done today.

Eadric; Jowan; Rinna; Taliesen; each name an old wound disrespected. Zevran had struck first. Maker, he wanted the words back.

It was Zevran's turn to flee this time. He took his shame and the sharp way Soren pointed for him to walk away, and left.

He'd made a mess of this.

Maker Preserve Him, he'd made an _awful mess of this…_

 _-.-_

The week resumed and Jylan was not called upon by Master Arainai or the Warden Commander again again. Instead, he received a letter from Guildmaster Owain regarding several matters of acquisition and business, penned most of his reply, but then neglected to complete and send the letter back to Amaranthine. He did not forget; he neglected it. He turned the duty aside and did not complete it.

Two days later a second letter arrived from Owain:

 _With regards to correspondence dated the 24_ _th_ _day of Harvestmere, 9:44 Dragon: it is pertinent to offer a reminder at times that extended periods of delay in correspondence may indicate a waylaid messenger or illegibility of the letter due to rain, fire, or other damage. In such instances, it is prudent for either party to submit a second copy of their correspondence and re-establish contact._

The following pages were a copy of the previous letter, the same one partially answered and folded into one of the locked drawers of the workshop. Jylan compared the two from the Guildmaster to ensure no additional information had been included or otherwise changed. He then withdrew his unfinished reply from the same drawer and re-read it, reminding himself of the unwise wording half-way down the third page which had halted him from replying the first time. He had truthfully, but unwisely, made mention of his period of struggle and the words had become ungainly and difficult to order beyond that point. He was not certain the struggle had completely resolved itself, he was uncertain of how to proceed with correcting his improper behaviour, he did not know how to complete the letter.

If he did not make his response properly, then the Guildmaster may deem it appropriate to recall Jylan from Vigil's Keep: something he had been commanded by An'eth not to facilitate. However, he was not prepared to lie. He had not yet decided if his response regarding guild business would simply omit any mention of Owain's statement: _'The guild has been made aware of noteworthy conflicts between your posting and the Chantry of Vigil's Keep. Please provide elaboration of this matter.'_ If it was omitted, it would only serve to delay the matter of exposition. If it was answered incorrectly then he would be recalled to Amaranthine. If it was answered tactfully, nothing would change.

They were tranquil: neither Jylan nor Guildmaster Owain possessed the social grace of tact.

As he was now obligated to reply to the new letter and not the old one, Jylan fed the old pages to the fire. He withdrew fresh parchment, ink, and the smooth brass-nib pen from Connor's writing supplies and copied the new letter from Owain in proper guild fashion. He would send this new letter with its reminder back to the Guildmaster along with his reply to facilitate the process of record keeping.

He completed copying the letter before turning aside from writing and completing the task of setting two batches of soap, finishing the extraction process on a batch of blood lotus, and then shredded and pickled a vat of elfroot. Jylan ended his day when Samar and Dirth returned from an extended walk around the keep just before the evening bell.

He dined with his brother, returned the hound to the kennel, escorted Lady Rowan to the keep's gardens until the twilight grew too dim and cold for her spell-work, and then retired for the evening.

The next day, after the morning and afternoon bells had passed, a third letter arrived from Amaranthine:

 _Persistent delays of correspondence are an unusual and therefore noteworthy change in behavior. Respond at once by the 28_ _th_ _Day of Harvestmere; tomorrow, before additional steps become necessary to re-establish contact._

The words were not intended as a threat however there was a looming sense of urgency over the two simple lines sandwiched between Jylan's address and Owain's signature and seal.

"You okay?" Samar inquired from his seat at the end of the worktable. To stave off his boredom Jylan's brother had acquired a set of blank paper cards and whittled himself a thin stylus from discarded wood. The ink he used was the residue from a previous batch of black ink, and he made delicate, careful marks with the stylus. He was building himself a new deck of cards for when he inevitably returned to sea, and the work kept him in a pleasant mood throughout his hours of lingering in the workshop.

Samar also became better acquainted with Mistress Valora, Lady Rowan, and Warden Velanna at the close of his third week in Vigil's Keep. The women were not present this morning.

"Yes." Jylan's answer was preceded by a period of silence that had violated social custom. "I have been remiss in my duties to the guild, but it will not take long to rectify the matter."

"Anything I can help with?"

"Not unless you desire to return to Amaranthine City to deliver a letter to the Guildmaster."

"I could check up on my ship," Samar entertained the idea with more thoughtfulness than Jylan expected. "You finally ready to ask them about what was troubling you last week?"

"No." This time his answer proceeded far too quickly for him to consider properly first. Samar frowned at him but offered no criticism of this announcement.

"Well, you get whatever it is written and I'll get it there. Any chance I could get a horse or hitch a ride on a wagon for it though? _Walking._ " The journey to Amaranthine City was considered a day-long trek on foot, a half-day by wagon, or a little less by a cantering horse or team-pulled carriage.

"A horse would not be unreasonable."

However, before he could complete his letter to Amaranthine, the lonesome, feathered song of a deep horn reverberated through the keep. It was unexpected and noteworthy for what it signalled: the return of a Grey Warden company.

It was not An'eth.

At the time of Connor's departure from Vigil's Keep, several other companies had also left on errands to Antiva City and the seats of the other Warden Commanders of Thedas. Among the members who sailed to Antiva was Warden Sephri once of the Starkhaven Circle of Magi.

Jylan was not overly acquainted with Warden Sephri, but she entered his workshop later that afternoon with the ceramic, glass, and wooden pots from her company's duties in Antiva. Each one was clean and in good condition, and the lids were all accounted for. The few which had been lost or broken the Grey Warden had taken the liberty of replacing.

"Thank you for your considerations."

"You do enough work without having to chase us Wardens for simple housekeeping duties." Warden Sephri was human with a dark Rivaini complexion, ropes of black hair and smooth cheeks and thin dark brows. Her left eye and down her cheek were bleached white in a starburst pattern; some kind of scar Jylan had never inquired after. The event had left her eye itself undamaged, though the long black lashes of the one eye were not equal on the scarred one. She was equal to him in height and came to the workshop after cleaning and resting herself from her long journey, dressed in many folds and twists of wrapped white and purple-slashed fabric. She wore trousers and a woven shirt to protect herself from the cold, but the robe was her main garment and she wore it with comfortable pride.

Connor and others had claimed repeatedly that Warden Sephri was unfriendly and standoff-ish. Jylan's experiences with her did not match this description, but his interactions with people rarely carried through how other people expected. She smiled to him cheerfully, introduced herself to his brother in a friendly manner, and then thanked Jylan for his enduring work.

"Are you properly taken care of without Warden Guerrin around?" She did not ask him if he was emotionally unsettled or make any reference at all towards things which did not affect him.

"Yes, Warden Sephri. I am well."

"What about that nasty business I heard about you and the Chantry? Is it resolved?"

"I have not been updated on the situation. As I have not received commands from the Seneschal to resume fulfilling requisitions for the Vigil's chantry, it is prudent to assume the matter remains outstanding."

"You and I are not in the Circles anymore, Compounder." She folded her arms and adjusted her weight with a swing of her hips, chewing the inside of one dark lip for a moment. "Is reasonable for me to expect you to come to me if you encounter any further conflicts with the Chantry?"

"If that is what you desire and you feel your presence would be beneficial under such circumstances, then yes."

"How-" Samar's head came up from his cards at this point, and he blinked repeatedly before focusing on Warden Sephri and speaking to her. "How did you do that? You just got through to him in five minutes, when I've been asking the same thing for _weeks_."

"Did you ask him if he _wanted_ your help or if he thought your help would actually mean anything?" Warden Sephri asked Samar, then looked at Jylan again. "I'm not trying to belittle you, I just know it's easier to speak factually of things especially when they might be difficult for you, Compounder."

"You are correct in this assumption, Warden Sephri." It was a matter of some relief to have Warden Sephri returned to Vigil's Keep.

"But _how?_ " Samar complained again.

"I used to work with the Tranquil when I lived in the Starkhaven Circle," Sephri explained. She had been a facilitator; in charge of making sure the Tranquil who had serviced Starkhaven's mages and magi quarters had done their jobs efficiently and well. She had spent a period of three years in the Kirkwall Circle trying to do the same job there before the murder of the Grand Cleric and Annulment of that Circle, but had experienced only the hardship and oppression of the Kirkwall Templars.

Jylan had first been made aware of, but had not met, Warden Sephri when she had arrived in Amaranthine City with twenty half-starved Tranquil from the Free Marches, all of them seeking refuge in the fledgling guild hall. The mage herself had continued on to Vigil's Keep, but only after seeing her charges settled under Guildmaster Owain's guidance.

"You learn to change how you talk to people like you brother, Master Ashera." She continued now, speaking with a hand on her waist and the other one playing with the violet hem of her ruffled robes. "He's not stupid, none of them are, but if you wanted to ask me a question about magic then you wouldn't start by blithering on about what you had for dinner last night. When speaking to a Tranquil, you should only ask about what's _relevant_ to the matter at hand, not get yourself tied up about feelings and wanting."

"I can't say I'm too fond of that word some days…" His brother grumbled in a petulant way, but then softened and warmed up again with a small smile. "Any chance I could ask you to help out if he starts acting squirrely the way he does sometimes?"

" _What?_ " Sephri pulled a face at him, frowning with her lips curled in marked distaste. "I… suppose so? Compounder, what is he referring to?" Ah, it was perhaps not as fortunate as previously implied that Warden Sephri had returned.

"I experienced a pronounced period of struggle earlier this month," he replied, aware that Sephri would understand the implication behind that statement. And she did: the Warden displayed an automatic sense of shock. "I described it to him as a sensation similar to drowning."

"Did you send word to the guild?" She asked. "They should have sent someone to be with you, or you could have taken leave and gone home."

"No, I did not."

"Next time then," she admonished him rather than berate him for previous inaction. The event had passed, it was over, and he was restored in most capacities. "I'll leave you to your work, Compounder. Master Ashera, _yes_ , if he starts acting… what was it? Squirrely, you said? If he begins to act strangely again then come and find me in the Warden quarters. Otherwise, I'll leave you two to your day. Compounder."

"Warden Sephri." Jylan crossed his wrists and inclined his head to her, then resumed his work. He was only moments into his next task when Samar spoke up from the table.

"She's _awfully_ pretty." Jylan considered this statement before answering.

"Yes." Warden Sephri was very beautiful.

"When's yours coming back though? It's been a fortnight."

"It is difficult and often futile to estimate the exact time of a Grey Warden company's return to Vigil's Keep."

"Okay… are you going to work on that letter?"

"Not presently, no."

He resumed his duties, and neglected to answer his letter.

* * *

 **Zev had it down right until he got mad whoops bad decision :O MORE SAD ELVES FOR THE SAD ELF STORY**

 **ALSO SEPHRI IS BACK**

 **LIKE 10 CHAPTERS LATE BUT SEPHRI! IS! BACK!**


	22. Three Strikes

**Sweeter Place, Scars to Your Beautiful**

 **This chapter is outrageously long but this is what happens when I say "I will not end this until [plot point] is reached". I mean I reached the plot point but what a road to get there.**

 **There's a sex scene lower down, like, way lower down. For readers who are uncomfortable the moment you really really should be aware of can be jumped to by Ctrl+F to "compli-!?", because that interro-bang is only used once.**

* * *

 ** _Echoes of Arlathan_**

Three Strikes

Jylan posted a letter with his brother's aid to Amaranthine the morning it was due at the guild hall. The letter contained a copy of Guildmaster Owain's correspondence, and his reply of:

 _To: Guildmaster Owain of the Formari Guildsmen of Amaranthine._

 _Forty pounds at the stated value will suffice._

 _-Regards, Compounder Second Class Jylan Ansera. Harvestmere 27_ _th_ _, 9:44 Dragon._

That evening the horn atop the keep bellowed low and loud through the creeping twilight. Another Grey Warden company had returned home, and Jylan set this information aside as inconsequential to his evening routine of cleaning and preparing the workshop for tomorrow. He did not inquire as to who had returned, or linger in the common areas of the keep after the evening meal was served to the fortress workers, himself included. He took his hot portion of salted pork and mint-stewed potatoes and ate in a quiet corner of the servant's mess hall, taking his pint of beer and water in deep gulps to expedite the process.

He went immediately to his chamber and locked the door, distracting his idle fingers with several meticulous rows of fine stitches in black and amber thread. He lit only a single candle, causing his eyes to strain with the work, but additional light would have bled out from under the door and that would run contrary to his intentions. When he had developed a headache and become sufficiently fatigued for sleep, he undressed very quietly and retired for the night.

Twenty-one push-ups, thirty sit-ups. Prepare the fire, fetch his breakfast, ready the requisitions, a gentle knock on the workshop door.

 _No._

"Good morning…" An'eth was leaning in through the doorway, a small smile and a softness in her quiet voice that conveyed mild hesitation. She appeared very tired, her short hair lacking its small braids and her eyes drawn tight with dark circles under them. An'eth wore a warm vest of cut Dalish furs and a thick white woolen shirt, heavy trousers and sturdy boots keeping her cozy. She entered the workshop with a large canvas satchel hanging from her wrist, and a pronounced limp.

He did not find himself compelled to greet her, but her discomfort offered an alternative to silence.

"You are injured."

"I'm on the better side of it," she answered, keeping her smile and trudging forward. "Still a little sore, but thank you for worrying." He had not worried, merely made a statement so as to receive clarification. "Are you well?"

"I am unchanged, Warden."

"That's good, I think?" She offered a soft laugh, then looked to the table with his basket and deliveries nearly ready for distribution. An'eth lifted the satchel and placed it on the table, it was full but not heavy. "These are for the workshop, I hope they're useful."

The deliveries required his attention, but as it may shorten the length of her visit with him, Jylan pulled the drawstring bag open. The first thing he noticed was the acrid, burning stink of lyrium and then the pale blue glow of twisted, ugly tendrils: deep mushrooms. He would require his gloves to handle these properly without letting the blue enzymes soak into his skin. Deep mushrooms were highly reactive and an excellent catalyst for several explosive and medicinal recipes, but they were not easily handled. There was a wrapped leather parcel on top of the mushrooms and Jylan removed this from the bag, noting as well that there were assorted plants further inside: ghoul's beard and perhaps some elfroot.

"I _know_ those are important," An'eth explained, indicating the leather as she stood next to him. She was leaning against his arm and looking down with him as he worked. The twine binding the parcel shut was easily untied, and the leather was opened. Inside there were supple dark green leaves and thick stems capped with delicate necks and the softest white petals blooming from oil-gorged pods. Snowdrops. A considerable bundle.

"These are important, and the remainder are very useful as you had intended. Thank you, An'eth." He remained focused on the flowers but was aware of her hand reaching around to his face, and the way she kissed his cheek on the side closest to her.

"One of the many benefits of having a skilled and capable hunter for a lover, hmm?" She sounded very pleased and tucked herself close to him, but did not pull him from the act of reviewing the flower heads. He noted the clean cut across the base of each stem: a demonstration of proper harvesting technique. "You're welcome."

"I will process these into their most advantageous forms after I have completed the morning deliveries."

"Then I will let you do that," she commented, taking a deep breath against him before edging away from. The space allowed him to see her better if he chose to look at her, which he did not. "But I did have- there's something I wanted to say."

"Is it regarding the nature or extent of your injuries?" As Acting Apothecary, any medicines or poultices she required for her recovery would come from this workshop.

"No, but we can talk about it later when you aren't busy, just so you know everything." He resumed packing the basket with the morning's requisitions. He was not yet considered late; there were only four deliveries today. "Later is actually part of what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Will this discussion run beyond the time permitted by my early-morning duties? I trust that you are too unwell to walk with me about the fortress." She did not answer him right away; he did not look at her as he double-checked the requisition list.

"I… would _love_ to walk with you, _vhenan_ , thank you, but I don't think that's wise." Then she would not accompany him and he would depart shortly. "It won't take long; will you look at me?" She spoke gently but he completed his check before permitting himself to face her as requested. An'eth took his hands in hers, a gesture meant to focus his attention on her. She took a deep breath and her lips twitched with a bit of a smile, then she met his gaze and spoke to him.

"I _know_ that you don't feel embarrassed by things, but _I_ do and I know that I rushed us before I left." Perhaps she would end the relationship between them here, but he considered that outcome unlikely. "I just- I was enthusiastic, but taking off for so long immediately afterwards left me with a lot to think about. I skipped something that I _really_ want us both to have with each other, and I want to make it up to you."

"If it will ease any anxiety which may otherwise negatively impact your recovery, An'eth, then I will not refuse." He was not entirely clear on the nature of her meaning, but understood her expression of regret over their sexual encounters. Perhaps she intended to postpone any further uses of him? That she considered her affections for him to be genuine was quite obvious, although she still seemed unable to grasp that her feelings were not returned.

" _Thank you_ ," she sighed the words with a smile, her thumbs rubbing warmly across the backs of his hands. "Tomorrow is the day of rest and you won't have to get up as early, so tonight- Jylan, I'm asking you to come sleep with me." Oh.

Reluctance was no excuse for resistance.

"Very well, but I do not understand what in this arrangement constitutes a change." He told her. "We have already slept together twice." This claim startled her and An'eth's cheeks began to turn very pink.

"I- I mean to come and _share the bed_ with me, Jylan…" That did not clarify the matter.

"I understand both phrases to serve the same function." Her blush and anxiety both increased in severity. "Or do you not intend them as euphemisms for sex?"

"No!" She hushed him, dropped his hands and then walked directly into him for a hug which hid her face from him, her words muffled by his shoulder and chest. "No, I don't. I mean _sleep._ I mean warm and comfortable and _in bed_ , to _sleep,_ because I _missed you…_ "

His sense of reluctance was reduced. It was not the termination of the relationship he knew would ultimately resolve the matter between them, but it was an adjustment which he considered more agreeable. In light of this change, he brought one arm around her back and held where An'eth was pressing close to his body, imparting the sense of comfort she clearly desired from him. The Warden gave a warm sigh and nuzzled her face into his shoulder, but he only stroked his other hand down her shoulder and back once before speaking.

"I must complete my morning tasks, An'eth."

"I know… _okay_ ," she grumbled to him, deeply reluctant to pull away with her grasping fingers and sleepy eyes. "So you'll come tonight?"

"Yes."

"Don't eat then, I mean- don't eat _a lot_. Have maybe half your dinner before you come."

"I do not understand." His meals were provided from the kitchens with little regard for portion size beyond consistency for all members of the fortress' working staff.

"I have the ingredients for something _special_." She smiled and Jylan expected her to kiss him when she rolled onto her toes and stretched up to him, but she rubbed the end of her nose to his instead and it was comfortably benign. "So eat a little bit and _then_ come up to the Warden Quarters. And- and leave these robes behind. Everyone knows this uniform you wear, but I don't think as many will notice if you're just in a tunic and trousers." The expectation of secrecy remained, it was not his place to question why.

"Very well." He complied with her and _this time_ she kissed him, unexpected but brief. She departed soon after.

His morning resumed. Nothing of consequence occurred. He was given a fish and egg pie by Mistress Valora for his lunch. Dirth complained miserably about a clipped hang-nail on his paw that the Kennelmaster said was not of consequence: the hound merely desired attention. Samar was not expected to return until tomorrow.

Warden Sephri visited him briefly before lunch with Warden Lavellan. The two mages had encountered a disagreement concerning their magic and had given each other resounding headaches from expended mana. Jylan prepared a mild solution of processed lyrium and poured the glowing blue potion into two small cups which the mages swallowed without verbal complaint, but very animated physical reactions. Warden Lavellan did not stop curling his tongue over and over in his mouth until Jylan provided him with a cured elfroot leaf to suck on, the Dalish mage nodding to him in thanks once the sour herb was in place. Sephri opted for a small lick of honey, administered with a wooden tongue depressor, and she left humming and laughing at the faint green tinge on Lavellan's lips.

Jylan portioned half the deep mushrooms brought to him by An'eth after lunch, but was interrupted when three workmen came in carrying their fourth companion inside with the stink of burning flesh and fabric wreathed around his leg and one arm up to the elbow. As he was not a medic Jylan was not qualified to deal with this matter without assistance, but one of the workmen was easily capable of fleeing the workshop in search of Warden Velanna.

Cold water, elfroot poultice, embrium petals, an abundance of clean linen bandages, and Velanna's confident hands set the matter right. The human man was lifted off the table again and carried home with his limbs numbed by herbs and the deepest of the damage soothed by the modest application of magic.

Velanna also crouched and cast a dousing spell over Dirthamen's foot, only to then admonish the hound for his incessant and non-stop whining throughout the day when there was truly nothing wrong with his toe. The dog sulked and would not be consoled by her lecturing. Jylan was not affected by the persistent noise even after Velanna left.

Lady Rowan visited briefly, complained of the smell the burned man had left behind, and departed to spend the late afternoon with her horses instead. Jylan was occupied with scrubbing the bloodstains from Connor's table and floor. The workshop was clean by the evening bell, and locked up soundly for tonight and tomorrow.

He returned Dirthamen to the Kennelmaster, but the hound's poor temperament did not ease. In fact, it grew noticeably worse as the hound set his ears back and fussed excessively about being put back in his crate. When the Kennelmaster spoke to the dog directly and told Dirth he would be fed and then taken for a brisk run about the fortress, the mabari snapped at him and drew blood.

Jylan, who had not spoken throughout the Kennelmaster's interactions with the animal, interceded at this necessary point.

"Enough." Many words were available to him but in order to communicate himself efficiently with an animal Jylan did not employ many of them. At the sound of his voice, the animal ceased growling and pulled his front legs together, crouching without aggression. "Samar is not here; you will stop." One could not reason with an animal, dogs did not understand logical arguments or consequences. They only knew threats. They knew insults. "Foul beast."

Dirth recoiled from him in a very complete way, backing up shamefully and opening his mouth with a shrill, heaving noise of distress.

"To your cage." The hound retreated, swung his head wide to look for the open door of his kennel, and backed inside. It was intolerable of the animal to attack the only person in the keep capable of taking proper care of him. Once Dirthamen was inside, Jylan approached the door and swung it shut, ensuring the simple lock mechanism was securely latched before turning to the Kennelmaster. The hound would not stop shrieking through the bars once his back was turned.

"I apologize for the violence, Kennelmaster." He spoke over the dog's yelps and cries. "The hound has grown accustomed to my brother's attention over these past weeks and now seems committed to misbehaviour without him."

"That's a bit of a harsh assessment, wouldn't you say?" The Kennelmaster was holding his wounded hand very tightly, a deep puncture mark weeping bright blood across the back of his hand. He looked down at the wound with a shaky breath and flexed his fingers. "Tis not a bad bite, Compounder, no need for rough words with him. If any dog here really wanted to hurt me I'd be missing everything and again what went into his mouth."

"I would know if he bites you or any of your assistants again." Dirth gave another painful shriek. The Kennelmaster looked past Jylan to the hound for several seconds, then looked at him with a suggestion of immediate concern.

"Is everything alright with you, Compounder? That dog's worried, he's-"

"I would know if the animal bites you or any of your assistants again, Kennelmaster." Jylan interrupted him. The human stared at him for several more seconds, then drew himself up to his full height with anger pulling down his face.

"Now you listen to me, you rat-nosed bastard," the kennelmaster spoke as if to threaten him and summarily wasted his breath in the process. "I don't give a damn what short-sighted nonsense brought a mabari into an elf's care but I'll absolutely _not_ have you stressing a war-hound like that because you ain't got nothing left between those feathers you call ears! Pure ingratitude is all you've got for him. He's a _mabari_ , you scolded him, now sooth him before I knock your teeth in."

"I do not see how assaulting me will endear you to the animal in question when it is theoretically compelled by its imprint to react in my defense."

"A _fucking waste_ is all that bond is with how you talk about it!"

"If the animal is defective, then destroy it."

Crimson blasted over his vision and his orientation vanished. He regained awareness from the ground where he was held up on one elbow, his hand pressed to shield the side of his face where the blow had landed. He did not feel pain from the punch or the fall, he knew only that it had come suddenly and-

-was repeated into his gut. The force flipped him away from the blow and his arms instinctively wrapped around the point of pressure and faded pain. He could not breathe, his eyes were closed, his ears were ringing loudly with the howls and mad barking of several hounds.

"Fucking _knife-ear."_ The Kennelmaster's voice reached him through the din because that was the sound that would indicate any further experience of violence. He found footsteps, heard them trail away from him, knew items were moving on one of the tables in the kennel. He opened his eyes and blinked several times, drew a weak breath that caught and kicked back out of him, then pushed his arm down into the dirt so he could begin to stand. "You ever dare speak ill of your betters again, elf, and it'll be the whip for you. Get out of my kennel."

Winded and unsteady, he left. When he was enveloped in the dim torchlight of the fortress again and well away from the howling echoes of the kennel, he permitted himself to stop and lean on one of the cold stone walls. His arm remained around his gut, but as he stood there he slowly regained the ability to draw deep, even breaths. There was a crawling sense of hurt along his cheek and the curve of his eye, and the pain intensified when he touched it firmly, but he could not be certain of a bruise.

Tranquil were not permitted to engage in conflict, but he had not been aware of the moment to diffuse tension or to back down from the Kennelmaster: he had simply not been paying proper attention. Elves could not voice their opinions openly when they ran contrary to those of a human or a superior. That the Kennelmaster was not his direct superior was irrelevant, Jylan was only _Acting_ Apothecary and he was elven. Silence was always the acceptable recourse and he did not understand his own persistence.

He knew better. He had acted inappropriately on two counts. He would not misstep again.

When he had regained control of his breathing and ability to walk properly, he straightened from the wall and continued on. His gut ached.

He collected his dinner from the servant's mess hall, but only ate half the mashed potatoes, dark gravy, and roasted autumn greens. That the side of his face hurt when he chewed made it easier to abandon the meal half-way through, regardless of his sense of hunger. He had been told not to eat too much. The servant he returned the bowl to exclaimed softly over the unfinished portion and used his name when asking after his health, but Jylan merely replied with a quiet _'thank you_ ' and left.

He returned to his room and as instructed stripped off his blue and white robes, draping the white one across the end of his bed so that he could launder the stained sleeves and trodden hem tomorrow. The blue one did not need washing and was returned to its hook. As he felt cold without his usual layers of clothing, he opened his drawers and withdrew a thick woolen tunic, one of only two he owned, and pulled the deep burgundy wool over his head, smoothing it down his shirt.

His gut hurt from the kick and his hunger, but he did not crawl into bed and he would not ignore a summons from Warden Athras a second time. He left his ring in its box and locked his chamber door, keeping his keys at the belt of his tunic. He felt tired. He doubted his black bangs would obscure the brand should anyone look at him directly.

No one looked at him directly.

He moved through the settling underbelly of the fortress until he found the short flight of stairs and the open servant's door into the Warden mess hall. He made an immediate turn from the doorway and went up a flight of stairs to the second floor, the balcony lined with doors to private rooms. The Wardens were loudly enjoying their meal below him, the rattle of dice and the thump of throwing knives and loud boasting filling the great hall along with laughter and broken lines of song. Wardens seldom ate in silence at Vigil's Keep.

Jylan found An'eth's door and stopped well before it. The door was open, but it was also filled with two standing bodies. Warden Lavellan, although only recognizable at second glance, was at the door without his armour, robes, or staff. His black hair was swept free from its braids and then looped back with only a single loose cord of leather, folded pelts of white fur and soft blue wool overlapping down his body to warm him comfortably in the ambient din rising to the balcony. Next to him stood another tattooed Dalish elf, a much younger man closer to Jylan's own age, who was bouncing excitedly on his bare toes. Dalish boots with the heels and toes cut away laced up his calves to his knees, deep red fabric pleated and twisted around him in a Dalish style still distinct from Lavellan or Athras, and the elf's fair corn-yellow hair was roughly chopped around his ears to make him look younger still. The younger, unfamiliar elf was a Warden by the silverite bracer still strapped to his left arm, and the ornate sheathes of the two daggers through his belt.

Standing opposed to both of them was An'eth, scowling, with the door clearly braced in its half-open position to prevent the two other Wardens from entering.

"It's _not for you_ ," An'eth stated petulantly, sticking her bottom lip out at Lavellan.

" _Lethallan,"_ the mage purred to her, "I cannot in good conscious let such a smell invade the entire quarter without getting a taste of it for myself."

"Please!" The younger elf cried. "Please? _Please?_ Oh please, I can't take it…"

"Do I have the Dread Wolf nipping at my heels tonight? No!"

Jylan turned away from the discussion. To walk through it would encourage both Wardens to look at him and recognize him, and he understood that this was not something An'eth wished to have happen. He had made two mistakes tonight already, he would not permit a third one. He turned away, and as there was nothing to engage with on the balcony itself, he moved to the railing looking down over the mess hall. The bickering behind him faded.

Even up here the smell of roasted meats and dripping fat was distinct, teasing his hunger although his own unfinished meal had been cooked in the dripping-pans of the same broiled chops and flanks gracing the tables below. The flavours and fats carried over, but the meat itself rarely escaped.

The servants' food in Vigil's Keep was noticeably better than the Amaranthine guild hall's, but the guild had been significantly better again than the gruel and boiled vegetables served to the Tranquil within the Circles. The only times in his life that Jylan recalled biting into a cut of freshly cooked meat were evenings shared with Connor, who had insisted on sharing from the Warden table while Jylan aided him in his studies.

" _Fine!_ " An'eth's voice erupted behind him, followed by a slew of _el'vhen_ that resulted in both Lavellan and the younger Warden laughing and jeering to each other. Jylan kept his eyes on the tables far below him. The conversation died and then resumed with An'eth's brisk voice. "Now enough, _dareth shiral_ to you both, go eat those somewhere else."

"Syliase blessed us all when she sent you what's this? No _ise'haurasha?"_

" _That_ I know you can brew yourself, _Hahren_."

" _Maferramas, fifter-_ "

"Don't speak with your mouth full, Tessan, you'll choke."

" _If fo good fough…"_

"Thank you, now go. _Go away_."

"What is this?" Lavellan asked with a laugh, but also the abrupt pause and silence of someone who was chewing. "Who are you waiting for?"

"Not you!"

"Can I have another one?"

"No, Tessan."

" _Please?_ "

"I'm going to go back inside, and when I come back I'm either going to have another one for you or I'm going to have my shield, also for you."

"I'll take those odds," Warden Tessan boasted. "You put ground almonds in yours and that's worth losing a few teeth over. Where did you even _find_ almonds?"

"I'm closing the door now, Tessan."

" _Ma serannas,_ An'eth." Warden Lavellan's low voice cut in smoothly. " _Lethallin_ , I believe you owe me a game of cards downstairs. If Warden Athras will not honour her elders with a steaming cup of _ise'haurasha,_ then perhaps _you_ will prove more courteous."

"I…" An'eth's voice fell into a harsh, heavy sigh. "I will make you some tomorrow, _Hahren_. Thank you."

"But who are you waiting for?"

"Come, Tessan. Goodnight, _Lethallan._ "

"But-"

"Goodnight…"

The two Wardens left with more chatter and light-hearted exchanges. Jylan remained at the railing looking down in the mess hall below him. One of the tables had begun a loud chant, pints of ale and beer banging heartily on the wood, words tumbling over each other in a rolling echo that lost meaning, but held its rhythm. The Warden Commander was present among his Wardens and wearing his armour, and Warden Constable Oghren Kondrat was loud and boisterous beside him. The Commander's presence was likely the reason for the loud song. When Jylan saw Warden Lavellan and Warden Tessan mix and mingle with their brothers-in-arms, he permitted himself to step back and away from the edge.

He turned and An'eth was looking at him, gazing quietly out from where she was half-hidden behind her bedroom door. There was something very quiet about her, and the one hand he could see beckoned him softly with her curled fingers.

He complied, and when he reached the door she pulled him gently through into a place of great warmth and rich aroma. The latter firmly caught his attention, but his eyes were overwhelmed first.

The fire in An'eth's hearth was burning a deep red color, splashing the walls with steady folds of crimson light. The red was heightened by the Dalish lamps he had seen before, but never experienced lit in the dark. The furs, rugs, and trophies remained very similar, but not the same: she had pulled the mattress off her bed and laid it on the floor, using the foot of the bed and two chests to form walls that were now piled with pillows and blankets. The hearthstones and the floor just before it were the source of the smell.

Spicy, savoury, heavy and almost meaty. The warm aroma filled his nose and down his throat, something sweet teasing the very end of it but the peppery heat filled it too fast to follow. There were traces of flour and several jars both open and twisted shut on the floor, an iron camping skillet resting near the fireplace grate. A bowl still holding a portion of unused batter was near to it, next to the elegant samovar that was steaming gently next to the flames. A basket covered in soft linen was resting at the foot of the bed. The smell was coming from there.

"I'm sorry about all that," An'eth spoke in a hushed voice. "I… made a Dalish recipe for us, but I _forgot_ that some people don't know how to make it for themselves, and they came scavenging." The food smelled very good. He did not know what it was, but ideally it would satisfy his nagging hunger and help ease the lingering soreness in his chest.

"I am not certain why your bed has fallen on the floor, but it appears deliberate." There were too many blankets thrown over the chests and mattress for it to all be accidental. An'eth's pouting mutters vanished and she walked up to him with a kind smile, holding his arm with one hand and slipping the other arm behind him.

"It is. Here, take your shoes off. Have you ever been inside a Dalish aravel?"

"No." He had never seen a Dalish camp or one of their well-known landships.

"Well, they're not very big inside but the ones each family has are _cozy_. I miss the walls and the furs in my father's aravel, his censer with pine gum burning for Sylaise. I always find human beds a bit too exposed, so when I get homesick, I do this."

He removed his shoes and left them outside the fortification of blankets and pillows. His feet sank into the mattress and his balance would not hold if he were expected to walk about in the small space, but An'eth settled on her haunches right away and he lowered himself as well.

" _This_ ," An'eth said, creeping forward and fetching two cups from the floor near her fire, "Is called _ise'haurasha_ , or _fire-honey_." She poured a stream of amber liquid from the samovar, the tall urn with its spout and closed top. "Rose hip, a bit of cloves, a lot of honey, and some embrium petals. I don't like mine too sweet, so if this isn't strong enough for you then I can add more." He accepted the cup from her and it was steaming gently, but smelled sweet and full-bodied. The richness from the spices under his nose overpowered the peppery aroma of whatever had cooked in the pan, and he drank slowly to allow the tea to flow through his mouth and across his pallet.

"…Do you like it?"

"I cannot comment on the strength of the drink, but I find it very agreeable." He swallowed from it again and An'eth held out her hand for the cup. He handed it back to her and she refilled it with more, gesturing for him to come to the edge of the soft mattress where she placed the cup down. He complied and watched her take the top off three of the jars, lifting each one for him to see.

"This is made with fermented Halla milk," she explained of a white, creamy jar. It was not butter or cheese, and had a faintly sour smell. "This was the reason I wanted to make this meal for you, I was able to get the milk while in the Wending Wood. And this is…"

"Mustard." She beamed at him, but with the brilliant colour of the paste it would have been few other things.

" _This_ is spicy, so be careful with it." The last jar was red, and indeed when she held it up and he made the mistake of bringing it too close to his face, the scent burned and his eyes quickly teared up. It did not seem safe to eat. "I tried it for the first time when I was in the Free Marches, so now when I go to Amaranthine when the ships from Rivain and Antiva are in port, I try to get a little bit more. You won't need more than a pinch for the whole meal."

"I believe I will abstain."

"Or you could do that," she laughed, but then her smile tightened and her explanation of the meal stopped. "Jylan, did something happen to your face?"

"Yes, but it is no cause for concern." She did not look from him or make to resume her explanation. He sought to distract her: "You put substantial effort into this meal, An'eth, it would not do to let it grow cold."

"But are you alright?"

"Yes."

"I have some elfroot still in my gear, one of your poultices."

"If you believe it necessary then I will not dissuade you. However, I am not currently in pain." She struggled to rise, heaving a painful breath and holding a hand to her hip as she did so, but persisted and left the bed. She returned a few moments later with a familiar glass jar of poultice and sat down next to him, unscrewing the top and smearing some of the rich cream onto her thumb. Her fingertips tilted his chin so the firelight shone on his face, and she was gentle in her application of the healing salve. It went from the end of his eyebrow down nearly to his cheek, then swept carefully under his eye and across his cheek bone. After applying it thickly, An'eth then rubbed small circles with her thumb to work the cream into the forming bruise. His face was tender where she touched him. When she was done, he opened his eyes again and found her gazing at him with somber worry.

"Thank you, An'eth."

"Here, let's eat something." The subject did not change cleanly, but it was changed. The basket was pulled into her lap and An'eth removed the warm cloth, revealing many thick, flat rounds of some kind of bread. It was not baked with cheese or meat, but was a very dense, heavy cake with a dark colour and which held heat well.

"You tear off parts of them and dip them in the yogurt, mustard, or chilies. You drink the tea as you like." He tore off part of one as she did and tasted the bread itself. It was very warm, and chewy, but also contained a wealth of crushed seeds and nuts folded into the batter. The distinct taste of hazelnuts, walnuts, and chestnuts became apparent to him, but the savoury spices used in the bread did not reveal their names to him as easily.

With the yogurt, the spices were cooled and the sour notes added to the meal, rather than detract from it.

The mustard offered a brighter profile, and highlighted the cooler aspects of the yogurt when one was eaten after the other. The yellow seeds had been ground with oil and salt, making it very agreeable.

He abstained from the chilies.

"You're not going to tell me what happened, are you?" An'eth asked, drinking her honeyed tea next to him and repeatedly shifting her weight to ease the strain on her wounded body.

"It has passed," he answered. "May I now inquire as to your own injuries from the mine?"

"We opened the deep roads, the spawn were _long_ overdue for a clearing." She folded her bread over itself and dipped it into the mustard, taking a bite before touching the smallest corner to the red and eating them together. "We went two, three days deep, I think? All the way to the abandoned Thaig down there, just to make sure there were no broodmothers in the area. I was lanced right here," she leaned back on one arm, her legs out in front of her, and pressed down just inside her hip bone. "-but the others stopped the bleeding. It still hurts _awful,_ but the Warden Commander checked me last night when we came home and he said it's healing properly on its own."

"The Arl is a very accomplished Spirit Healer."

"I know, but I still think I would have liked Connor or Velanna's help instead." Jylan did not challenge her. Surana's expertise was not to be doubted, but he was not to engage in any sense of conflict.

These heavy breads were very filling. Jylan consumed two, and half-way through the third realized he was no longer hungry. In fact, it moved very quickly from not hungry to the unfamiliar sensation of fullness. He switched from the bread to the tea to prevent the full feeling from becoming an alarming sense of nausea. He was not used to consuming more food than was necessary at a time. The tea brought some relief.

"I'm a Grey Warden, _vhenan,"_ An'eth spoke with a teasing warmth next to him, relieving him of the half-eaten cake that had sat in his hand for the past several minutes. It was good that the food would not be wasted. "I don't expect you to keep up with me."

"I was not aware of the filling nature of the bread."

"We Dalish eat on our feet most of the time, our food has to be hearty enough to keep us full for hours while on the move." She closed the jar of red paste and Jylan, who was closest to the mustard, closed that one himself. The yogurt was gone. The remaining batter would not be cooked tonight, and there were still a few of the cakes in the basket which An'eth covered up again.

She brought her washbasin and a well-used pad of honey soap to the bed area despite them both sharing the ability to stand and walk to it. They washed with the same water, mostly to remove the trace oil from the flatbread, and An'eth drew out her comb as her fingers untwisted the small braids hanging from her temple. He did not know what was expected of him, so he saw to the needs of the fire by placing two large pieces of wood across the fading flames.

"You get tired, right?" He blinked and looked away from the burning fire, finding her slowly in the red light. "It's an emotion, sometimes, but mostly it's just physical."

"I experience fatigue and exhaustion, yes."

"Never nervous?"

"No."

"Never scared?"

"No. I am tranquil, An'eth." She looked at him quietly, pulling her hand through her hair once, then repeating the gesture, and then again.

"What about lonely?"

"I am not negatively affected by isolation, no."

"Do you sleep with your hair braided like that, or brushed out?" She changed the subject because the current topic had run its course.

"I comb it before retiring to bed." He did not have it here, but the topic reminded him of something.

"Would you like any help with it?" She held up her comb for emphasis, he did not answer the question.

"When changing the arrangement of your bed, did you discover the missing amulet described to you before you left Vigil's Keep?" She gave him a pronounced frown.

"I hardly remember that, Jylan. It's been a long few weeks…"

"Red, with a yellow chantry sunburst painted on top. It is two pieces of wood, worn from age, fixed together with a brass pin." It was Amara's. It was missing.

"Can we look for it in the morning?" She was tired and injured. He was also tired as well as uncomfortably full. He would revisit the matter in the morning. "Come, _vhenan_ , I'll help you with your hair."

He did not require aid but did not attempt to evade her request. He sat as she beckoned in front of her, and she pulled free the tie keeping his braid closed, working her fingers and then the comb through his hair.

That she intended for this to be intimate was apparent even to him. Her legs were spread and resting to either side of him, but he considered the nature of her injury and doubted that she sought anything more than immediate proximity to him. His hair was parted with care and brushed out, the fine teeth of the comb finding some difficulty with their task as An'eth's fingers alternated between working with the comb and reaching through the curtain of his hair to rub his back.

"Is there a reason you keep it so long?" She asked him, working her touch up the back of his neck and prompting a pleasant sensation to tease the base of his skull. The comb's teeth stroked his scalp and his eyes inadvertently closed in response. He remembered and answered her question.

"Not anymore. It is simply a matter of habit now. Does it displease you?"

"Not at _all_ ," she marvelled softly. "It's gorgeous and warm. I just thought that, since you usually try to keep things simple, it was odd that you would grow it out like this."

"It was routinely cut back during my time in the Circle," he reported this fact to her, closing his eyes again when the comb stroked from his right temple, then back and across and down until the teeth lost his scalp and ran through the hair itself. "When I was made tranquil I was required to grow it out at the behest of the Templars."

The comb abruptly stopped. Unfortunate.

"Why would the Templars have cared about your hair?"

"I am elven and it is very soft; this pleased them."

"Jylan," the brushing did not resume. She was taken with anxiety and tapped him on both shoulders, seeking his attention as if it were possible to her that he had been focused elsewhere. "Turn around and look at me."

He complied. The mattress beneath them did not make this easy for him as his balance was not easily mastered, but he pulled himself forward and managed to reach his knees, then turn on them and face her. As anticipated, he was deemed too far away from her and An'eth waved him closer, beckoning Jylan forward until she could clasp his face between her hands and pull him into a kiss.

Given the arrangement of weight and limbs, Jylan did not reciprocate this action. Given sufficient encouragement it was unlikely An'eth would hesitate to pull him from his crouch and drop her weight onto her back. Thusly entangled, either her Warden or naturally amorous natures would compel another sexual encounter. Refusing to encourage her was not the same as resisting a stated demand.

Lacking his engagement, the kiss broke apart gently and An'eth stroked his face, careful of the bruise spread next to his left eye. After a second, shorter touch of her mouth to his An'eth settled for gazing at him warmly. He was uncomfortable in this position: crouched in front of her and leaning far forward, his weight cast on one hand sinking into the mattress next to her.

"I've never heard a single good story about what the _shemlen's_ Templars did to the mages in their Circles," she told him softly, brushing her nose to his intimately, but without kissing him again. "Was it the same for you? Did they hurt you?"

"Infrequently after the Rite, but yes." His answer was unwise as it caused a look of open pain to shroud her face. An'eth brought both hands up and back across his forehead, dragging her nails through his hair to brush it away and then tangle in it, sweeping forward over his shoulders and initiating another kiss. She was persistent but he did not engage. When she released him he spoke: "It has passed, An'eth."

"How much of it did they blame on you being a mage, and how much on the fact that you're one of the people?" She kept her eyes closed, hands slipping from his hair and reaching up again, stroking his neck. Her hands were calloused, but warm.

"The two facts were deeply intertwined," he answered, but then offered a correction. "Provided the facts are that I was a mage and elven, not a mage and one of your people. My first encounters with the Dalish were through you, An'eth. I am not Dalish."

"Every elf in Southern Thedas can, if they work hard enough, trace themselves back to the fall of the Dales." An'eth's voice was hushed with respect for the topic, respect which seemed misplaced. There was no work-around for those elves like himself who had been removed from their families and then, as Mistress Valora had explained to him and Samar: had their names changed to prevent rekindling a connection with lost kin. Jylan understood that he was fortunate. "We are _all_ remnants from the same nation, _vhenan_."

"That is unlikely as I understand from my brother that our parents were from Rivain, not southern Thedas." This was his work-around to her blanket statement. "They began their family in Gwaren when my father could no longer work the trade winds and our mother had no desire to return to her homeland."

"There are Dalish in Rivain, Jylan." That did not change the fact that Samar had never described Dalish blood-writing in his memories of either parent's faces. Samar was old enough to remember many things Jylan had forgotten in the Circle: their father's laugh and their mother's rough hands included. "We've had a long time to scatter as far as we need to be to keep safe."

"Evidently." He had already persisted too deeply in conflict with her. If he continued in this manner then he would run the imminent risk of her anger and likely suffer some physical reprisal for his behaviour. As he had been struck twice today already, he would not permit himself to endure a third and no doubt more punishing blow from a Grey Warden. "Are you tired, An'eth?"

She smiled, laughed gently through her nose, and then nuzzled her face to his. Jylan's shoulder was aching from holding his weight as long as it had, but he allowed himself to be kissed again as An'eth leaned and looked up into him. The amount of force she used was sufficient to misalign his lips, and the brief effort he made to correct that was misinterpreted as returning the kiss itself. Unfortunate.

She reached up with both arms and wrapped them around his neck, then dropped her weight onto her back. He was not properly balanced to resist this maneuver, and even if he had been he could not refuse her anyways. He would not be hit again tonight, he used his arms only to ensure he followed her, not fall on her.

Eyes closed, he was not permitted to stare at her with his vacant, disengaged expression. He tasted fennel and sage and mustard seeds on her mouth, felt her bring one knee up and her thigh brush against his hip. She hooked her arms under and around his shoulders, pulling him down when her spine rolled and her hips swept up under him. When her lips broke from his to kiss across his cheek, then down his jaw, and her fingers combed through his hair again, he voiced a modest protest: the only one he could think of.

"You stated that you desired only to sleep." That she had changed her mind was evident. That his statement could be easily explained as merely a request for clarification of her purpose was what permitted him to speak at all.

An'eth made a low, whimpering noise of protest under him, but slowly relented. She did not become angry or forceful with him, did not bark back with a demand for his compliance or silence, or make immediate effort to state she had changed her mind. Instead, her body relaxed under his, her grip loosened around his head and shoulders, and she hummed softly up at him, nudging his nose several times with hers until he looked at her.

" _Okay,_ " she sighed, cupping his face with her hands and placing another kiss on his lips, but just the lips this time. "We should dress down for that then, shouldn't we?" She stroked one finger across his cheek to his mouth, then tapped her own lips. He did not know if the gesture was merely an idle one or if it was meant to indicate a kiss. But she tapped her lips again, gazing at his, and when he leaned down she moved her hand out of the way with a sleepy smile. He kissed her.

Then he climbed off of her, which she did not seem to enjoy. Typically, Jylan slept in a set of soft wool trousers and shirt, unless it was well into summer when the heat finally soaked into the lower levels of the castle, making his chamber too hot, and then he would strip down to just his smallclothes. He had not brought the change of clothes with him, so merely removed his belt and keys, and then pulled the tunic off over his head. There was a modest twinge of pain in his chest from the kick to his gut.

The shirt and trousers he had worn throughout the day were clean thanks to the protection of his robes. They were stale from the day, but not rank or uncomfortable. He did not remove them. His socks were balled and left with his belt and keys next to his shoes.

An'eth stripped off her vest and shirt. Unlike their first encounter when she had worn very little after coming from the castle baths, under her shirt she wore a garment of soft undyed linen. The straps over her shoulders were gently braided and woven in a lace pattern, the modest decoration flowing under her collarbones and around her back, the shift tucked into the soft trousers she also removed. It was an item of comfort and did not include any boning or tight straps to constrict or shape her body, falling neatly to a plain hem which crossed the tops of her thighs.

Hanging around her neck on a fine black metal chain was a pendant of silverite and glass: a Grey Warden's oath, containing a bead of darkspawn blood in its heart. Jylan had noticed but not paid much attention to the pendant when experiencing their second encounter. He knew the relevance of the item from Connor. An'eth's hung down between her modest breasts, and it was curious to him that she lifted the chain over her head and set it aside before looking at him with a smile.

"You might get hot wearing all that." He doubted the validity of her statement, but made no such comment. "Here, help me with this."

There were several layers of blankets and furs under where they had been sitting on the mattress. An'eth's hands peeled them back until she found the layer she wanted them to rest on, and Jylan consented after the second wolf's pelt was drawn over his legs and her chest that yes: he would become excessively warm if he chose to sleep fully clothed.

He was faced with one of two alternatives: reveal the likely bruise on his torso by removing his shirt, or risk encouraging her libido again by removing his trousers and thereby providing her with too much access to his lower body. He removed his shirt, twisting away from her with the act, and discarded it by his other belongings before settling down, the furs resting against his skin.

Despite the very strange sense of being much too close to the ground, the aravel-like arrangement of the furs, blankets, and chests was indeed cozy and quite comfortable. There was sufficient space for both of them as Warden beds were built larger than those for servants. Despite the ample room, as soon as Jylan was settled on his back An'eth immediately came to him under the blankets.

Her bare arm passed over his chest and her hand curled into the pillow under his head from a point between his shoulder and neck. She settled her face into the dip of his other arm, eyes closed and a full sigh escaping her as she stretched her back. She then kicked a little and reached one leg over and around his, twisting yet closer to him.

Jylan had shared a smaller bed with the larger stature of his brother and still ultimately had more mobility than what was afforded to him now. He was not certain if An'eth was truly comfortable in this position, but she sighed goodnight to him and he answered only by lifting the hand of the arm she was laying on, settling his touch at the dip of her waist. He was for the moment comfortable on his back with a pillow under his head and shoulder, but if that changed he would doubtless have to remain in his current position to accommodate her.

Her hair smelled clean and pleasant. He was very full from the meal she had made for them. His breath still tasted like honey and rose-hips. The room was warm. The bed was warm. She was soft and also very warm. They would only sleep tonight. His mild injuries would resolve themselves throughout tomorrow. The fire was burning warmly and kept the room heated. The sounds of the Warden mess hall did not carry through the thick walls and door of the chamber.

His eyes felt heavy until he closed them. He relaxed, and-

An'eth smothered a laugh against his shoulder, he did not know why, but he understood that she was smiling as he opened his heavy eyes only to lose his vision again from the effort. He was not required to look at her, and made only a soft vocalization in his throat to alert her to his attention.

"Did- did you just _sigh?_ " It was very likely. "I've never heard you do that before- you just-?"

"It is a physiological…" Response? Reflex? He did not know the proper word at present. Fluttering his eyes open only showed him the red-splashed ceiling of her room. "I am tired."

"Do you yawn?" She asked, a strange query.

"When sufficient…ly..." Oh. Yawns were not a conscious decision, and this was proven by the fact that he did so now. He turned his head away from her and covered his mouth with his free hand, drawing the deep breath his body required and feeling tears prick his eyes. He dropped his head back down and returned his arm back to its warm place under the blankets. Her arm across his chest moved and slipped under the furs as well, searching by touch across his ribs and stomach until she found his arm, then his wrist, and finally his hand which was coaxed to hold hers. She pressed her fingers between his, weaving their hands together gently. He closed his eyes again.

"Are you… ticklish?" He opened his eyes again.

"Tranquil do not laugh, I would discourage you from making any such attempts."

"That was a deflection, not an answer." She inhaled quick and lifted her head. He did not look at her, he knew that she was smiling. "You _are_ ticklish."

"I once was. I have not- _agh-_ " Involuntary vocalization, not intended. The muscles through his core tensed and his body twisted toward hers, away from the squirming touch of her thumb that ribbed and stroked across his side. His hand tightened around hers, but she shook free from his grip and laid her hand flat around his side, embracing him as she hid her laughing smile against his bare shoulder and nuzzled his skin. The affectionate gesture turned to kisses which walked across his exposed collarbone, and he consciously reduced the amount of tension holding his back and shoulders rigid. Intense and visible discomfort would imply resistance.

"I won't do it again." She crept across him, used her warm hand to tilt his face towards hers, and kissed him with a smiling hum. "I'm satisfied, because now I know something _no one else_ does."

"It is not useful information." An'eth rolled to her belly and propped herself up on her elbow, resting over his shoulder and rubbing gently across his bare skin, back and forth along his chest.

"Neither is knowing that you yawn, and sigh, and scratch your back when you stretch and get out of bed, but I know those things too." She spoke to him softly and in a gentle voice. That her interest in him hinged on the novelty of his condition was not lost on Jylan, but it possibly was on An'eth. Normal men also yawned, and sighed, and tended to their physical needs, all while possessing the capabilities for close and intimate and emotionally valid relationships.

He was warm and tired. The circle of this conversation would not yield anything relevant or engaging. He permitted his eyes to droop shut once more, and when she did not engage with him verbally again, they closed completely. He breathed deeply, the same novelty that had caught her attention before. Her response this time was to settle and crawl back down to lay her head on his chest, her arm once again cast over him and around his side, her leg no longer encroaching around his. As it would be more comfortable for him, and offer her emotional satisfaction if he did so, Jylan once again lifted the arm An'eth had tucked herself under and brought it to her waist, then further, to rest across her back.

He felt her cheek press tight with her smile. The fire crackled gently and the heavy spices in the air no longer preoccupied him so keenly. He was not in any pain and remained comfortable. He fell asleep.

He awoke briefly in considerable darkness, uncertain at first of his immediate location as he was much too close to the floor, not laying in the proper direction, and not alone. His memory jogged itself when he felt a heartbeat against his face and remembered An'eth. She remained asleep.

He was no longer on his back but rather lay in a tangle with her. He was not certain how this had come to pass, but then recalled repeated instances of waking up with his arms inexplicably cast around Samar before his brother had opted to sleep in a cot instead. It was fortunate that those events had not mimicked this one, because they were considerably different.

There was sufficient reason to doubt that his current orientation was the result of deliberate manipulation from An'eth. That she could successfully have rolled him from his back to his side was not in question, she was much stronger than him. That she could have successfully slithered his hand up under the linen shift she wore and twined his arm around and under her sleeping body was considerably less likely. He had woken up because that arm was asleep, but very much under her, inside her nightclothes, and he did not have a ready explanation for it. Nor, for that matter, could he explain his other hand and arm.

They were both on their sides and An'eth had cast her leg around him again, her knee resting at his waist. That did not explain or excuse the way his hand, although limp from sleep, had found its way along the back of her thigh and now rested against the swell of her bottom.

The least regrettable aspect of his current position was that of his face. An'eth's arm was curled around him, her hand resting behind his ear and fingers settled warmly in his hair. His nose was cuddled to her chest, his cheek cushioned by her breast, but the soft linen of her shift was still resting between them. That his head resting in her bosom was the least concerning part of their arrangement did not comfort him.

The hand around her thigh was easily corrected, the one so obviously trespassing around her back was not. If she woke up over the course of his attempts to extract himself, then it was unfortunate but reasonable to expect her to incorrectly claim it as a sign of love for her. He did not love her, he was tranquil. He did not desire her, he was tranquil. If Jylan had been capable of experiencing or expressing compulsions of lust then his arrangement with An'eth would have been far more agreeable and more easily managed from the beginning.

It was fortunate that he had opted to remove his shirt and not his trousers. He now knew that An'eth was wearing the shift and only the shift. This was not useful information.

He stretched his neck to relieve a mild knot of tension forming in the back, but did not rouse her with this action. As the fire had burned down to a subtle glow, the room was growing colder and the bed was the only source of stable warmth, due primarily to An'eth, who was exceptionally warm. Perhaps it was an aspect of her Warden nature but he was quite certain that she was nearly hot all over despite resting in quiet, unbroken sleep.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose, adjusting himself into a position of relative comfort in her embrace. He ignored the discomfort of his arm under her.

He fell asleep.

When he woke up again, there was a soft glow beginning to build in the room: dawn. He had overslept, which was not like him, but as it was the day of rest and he was not properly oriented in his own bed, it was not cause for immediate correction. Unlike his brief moments of consciousness earlier in the night, this time An'eth was awake as well.

And she was laughing, softly, clearly attempting to stifle the noise despite her body moving very obvious- his hands.

He did not understand.

He did not understand at all.

Inappropriate. Wrong. No.

A resonating nothing in his head that failed to adequately fill the space once meant for shock, horror, and wild confusion. He did not feel surprised, he did not consider himself disturbed, but he _should have been_.

"You… you're very handsy in your sleep…" An'eth whispered very softly and then covered her mouth with her hand again. He could not see her face, she was turned away from him. They were still on their sides but now her back was to him, pressed close to his chest. "You're awake?"

"Yes."

"Good _morning_ ," her greeting dissolved into giggles and her delight was not the worst possible outcome he could have been faced with. Her anger would have been immediately detrimental to him. Her sense of shock or violation, or insult at the presumptive behaviour of his unconscious self, would have been understandable and doubtless rather violent. He did not understand this: he was tranquil. There was no conceivable reason why his hands should have-

"I apologize." She was laying flush against his front and his arms were around her until he immediately extracted them. The arm under her had remained in violation of her clothing, sweeping around her side and up with his hand deliberately placed to fondle her breast. This was not the greatest offense, merely a contributing factor. In order for him to reach her chest from a starting point at her waist her shift had ridden up with his elbow. An'eth was wearing nothing else. His other hand had transgressed between her soft thighs, to the source of intimate warmth, and for a brief moment he considered the social and purely pragmatic implications of simply removing his left hand at the wrist.

His hands were removed from her without further issue. He removed himself from her side in short order. He would either be reprimanded for his behaviour or-

"Wait- _wait_ ," or encouraged. No. " _Vhenan_ , it's okay. I know you were only sleeping, but we're _both_ awake now." _No._ She turned to him, smiled at him. This was his fault.

"It was inappropriate of me and I should leave," he put the words out quickly, before she could state or command otherwise. "You have my apologies again, An'eth. I shall-"

"No, _stay_." No. _No._ He could not refuse. This was his fault. He had pledged not to misstep again last night but had done so again regardless of intention.

She touched and stroked down his face, placed laughing, sensual kisses on his lips and cheeks. Her words were spoken low and soft. The sensations across his fingers suggested he had not stimulated her in-excess or with any deliberate motion, but that was irrelevant. She had been stimulated. By him. It was his fault.

The word no did not suffice. It did not have enough weight or consequence. He did not require the word no. He required the word fuck.

 _Fuck_.

Her mouth kissing his, her hands pulling his arms until his touch returned to the parts of her that were most sensitive to such attention. Slurred instructions he followed by lifting the shift over her head, all too aware that this was his fault. He had instigated this. He could have been punished simply for doing so, for the implication that he was here for any reason but her own pleasure and intentions, but An'eth would not do that. She guided his mouth to her breast to suck and mouth, her weight tipping back and her soft voice and grasping hands bidding him follow.

His hand between her thighs, fingers and thumb that knew what was expected and after two previous encounters could compensate for the minor differences between a human woman and an elven one. Very minor differences. Irrelevant differences. She gasped and hummed in her throat, legs extending and then pulling back around him. His eyes remained closed, mouth and hands at work on her. This did not have to be a wholly negative experience.

"I want- _I want- ah…_ " Broken attempts at speech, not entirely disrupted by his efforts. She was animated, moving a great deal under him until she began to drag her dull nails up his arms, up his back, pulling him up and holding fast around his head so he was given no alternative but to kiss her. His weight was braced on his elbow, arm cast behind her shoulders and his own body beside hers to give space for his efforts on her.

Kisses turned her words to whimpers, changed her flailing into sweeping, persistent touches. She calmed and shivered, uncovered in the pre-dawn glow filtering through the room's small window, chilled by the air and silence hanging over the arranged bedding and furniture. The only sounds belonged to her breaths and the rubbing, spreading, and invasive practice of his fingers. Pleasure kept her quiet. When she indicated an end to the kisses and pulled his face down close to her, mouthing at his neck, her breaths were staggered and he felt her tense and twitch under him.

" _No more,"_ she hummed at his ear. She pulled on him, brought him forward over her, and then her hands began to reach and push down on his trousers. She was trembling, but it was an effect of her heightened arousal. " _You_ \- I want _you_."

He complied. His clothes were pushed out of the way. He kept his eyes closed. She used her feet to kick and push down until his knees were free as well, although she was not satisfied until he was as bare as she. His state did not match hers and she grew impatient, pulling him down on her with her thighs rubbing his skin and her knees drawn up to encourage a state of arousal. It was a physical response that did not consider the dubious circumstances of the moment, and occurred in short order.

"What-? Jylan-" It was necessary for him to rise off of her torso briefly to adjust their- "When did this happen?" She touched his body where his ribs stopped, where there was a tender soreness creeping from his gut to his chest. He kept his eyes closed and entered her smoothly, leaned over her to move in all at once, and startled her into a gasp that ended her attempts to speak. He took the hand touching him and pulled it away, lowered himself to her again and held that hand by the wrist and down on the bedding. His grip was not strong, merely guiding, and she made no sign of outrage at the gesture.

Her concerns turned to the rhythm of breaths and motions. Her hands clutched at his back and into his hair. It did not have to be a wholly negative experience. The frequency and intensity of her sharp gasps indicated she was in a state of greater sensitivity than in their previous encounters. He remembered that she was injured and made to adjust them- but she protested.

"No- before- like before- yes- _yes-_ " Then it was perhaps not sensitivity due to pain. This left the alternatives of his previous efforts and her own emotional investment in the process. She would peak soon, and ideally not require him a second time.

She praised and directed him, instructions whittled between soft cries and whimpers of pleasure. When slower, when deeper, when to stroke her thighs, lift her knees, kiss her neck. It was not his place to question or resist these instructions. The exertion made his skin very hot, and aggravated the bruise across his gut. The stimulating act of kissing seemed unnecessary at this point but she pulled his mouth to hers to smother her noise and he compli-!?

Motion twisted his neck and he recoiled sharply from pain. Involuntary resistance which stopped his actions, broke the rhythm that saw her peak but then stumble with a protesting cry. There was blood in his mouth. His eyes were open in an attempt to make sense and put order to conflicting sensation. He saw a thick bead of saliva and red blood fall from his mouth to her blushing chest.

His lip had _crunched_.

"Jylan-?" He was frozen without direction. " _By the dread wolf-!"_ He had experienced this moment before and if it was not properly navigated then he would be hurt again. An'eth had not hurt him before. She had hurt him now. That she had bitten him was not the issue: he was tranquil, he did not have the right to protest or to leave. The issue was that he did not know why it had happened. If she intended it as punishment then he would know for what reason so as not to repeat it and therefore stave off additional harm. If she intended it as a point of experiencing her own pleasure or power over him then he would confirm it as such so as to mentally and physically resign himself to that fact.

He had been braced over her on both hands but lifted one to his mouth to prevent further splatter from touching her skin. This required he pull his weight back to his feet and knees, his body hunched and in a pose of significant tension and discomfort.

"Why?" He uttered the question. An'eth was on her elbows and then shifted her hips back, swearing as she separated them and provided some relief as he no longer had to hold his position over her. He could retreat back and she pressed her knees together, the encounter sidelined and likely also considered over. She clasped both hands over her mouth and nose, staring at him with eyes held wide.

"Jylan I'm _sorry-_ "

"I do not understand my transgression." There was blood in his mouth. It was a significant volume that had begun to pool against his palm and was flooding back over his teeth. In such quantities the taste moved from noteworthy to excessive in regards to his own discomfort. There was an uncomfortable amount of saliva forming in his mouth as well, doubtless a response to the throbbing pain caught along the corner of his lip. "Why did you bite me?"

"I'm so sorry, let me see it." She reached for him, he withdrew from her. He did not know her purpose in attempting to touch him and reacted in search of space. Her fingers curled and her face displayed open pain at his retreat, but she did not become enraged by him either. His hand was filling with blood. "I- I have elfroot."

She rolled to her feet and moved with wobbling, unsteady steps. He did not know if she had peaked or not. He did not know if he had either. He knew very little about his physical self at present save that his skin was hot and cold all over without any sense of uniformity. He was messy and tender across his lower body, there were sensitive lines waving across his back and shoulders. His mouth hurt; his lip was swelling; his palm was bloody and beginning to seep down his jaw.

He abandoned the effort and retrieved his trousers from the ball they had been kicked into amongst the blankets. The wool was too dark to reveal the bloodstain from his hand as he stood and pulled both his underclothes and trousers on.

"Here," he looked at her and An'eth was holding a wooden cup of water to him. He accepted it along with one of the jars left empty from their meal last night. He took water from the cup, swished, and spat it into the jar: thick and red and painful. He repeated the act until the water from the cup was gone, and the waste water was simply poured into the corner of the cooled fireplace.

An'eth retrieved her shift and pulled it on as he washed his mouth. His lip still bled but was beginning to slow enough that he could swallow the blood now rather than permit it to pool in such a nauseating manner.

"I'm sorry," She repeated, "I'm _so sorry_. It's already bruising and I-" Her shoulders fell with a catching breath, even her ears dipping from the sense of regret. "It was just supposed to be a little love bite, but then there was this _wave_ of- and I'm _sorry_."

"Therefore it was not intentional?" Neither a punishment nor perversion.

"No- _no_ , never!" Her words sufficed. However, when she swept towards him he took an automatic step back to avoi- "Jylan!"

His foot sank into the bedding, his leg hit the chest enclosing the sleeping area and he continued down over it, striking his elbow to the stone floor. Numbness flared up his arm to his fingertips, cooling his small and ring fingers. There was a bruising pain at his elbow and a sore mark at his hip, but with an involuntary rush of air from his mouth he deemed himself uninjured. He pulled his legs over the barrier he had fallen across, possessing no sense of urgency with the matter of reorienting himself, but was swiftly aided by An'eths hands grabbing his arm and then sweeping around to brace him, offering unnecessary help as he reclaimed his feet.

Once he was standing, An'eth immediately wrapped her arms around his bare chest, holding tight to him with her face turned down against his skin. She repeated her profuse apologies, insisted she had not meant to frighten him, and pleaded that he return to the bed with her.

 _No._

"I request permission to leave." He toed the line of refusal and resistance, but was entitled to this attempt. His statement made her jump, ease her grip, and look up at him with surprise.

" _Permission?_ " She repeated, mystified. Very well: he would clarify.

"I am injured and you are in a state of distress." He said. "I request permission to leave and tend to myself privately, as well as to carry out several mundane but necessary tasks reserved for the day of rest."

"But- _permission?"_ She repeated the word yet again and this time he did not offer immediate reply. An'eth was the one required to provide clarification this time. He located his shirt instead, and this conscious action on his part broke her confused silence. "Jylan, I- I can't _force_ you to stay. You don't need _permission_ to do something."

"I am tranquil and you are a Grey Warden." This simple matter seemed to escape her notice far too often and if these lapses persisted or arose in other areas then it would be worthwhile to consider sending her to Surana again for more in-depth analysis of her physical wellbeing. "This is a Grey Warden fortress and I am a contracted servant within it. I request permission to leave, Grey Warden."

"I'm not some human Templar, Jylan!" She shouted at him, offended, before dropping her voice again but maintaining a stern tone with him. "I'm your _lover_. You're supposed to be able to talk to me without having to throw my rank or title into things." He pulled on his shirt. This was made of undyed wool and his hand left bloody smears and stains across the back where he grabbed it and the front hem which he used to pull it down. The bruise on his chest from last night was exceptionally tender.

"I hurt you and I'm _sorry_ , I am." She continued, and he remained standing as he pulled on one sock, then the other. Regardless of her eventual answer to his request, the room had grown cold and the clothing returned a sense of physical stability to him. "It won't happen again and if you just need space to calm down then yes, yes you can just leave, but-" He held his tunic in both hands before remembering something. He did not hear the rest of what she said but he did wait for her to finish speaking before looking at her, still holding the garment.

"The amulet I left here the first time we-" She threw her hands in the air with a loud, frustrated noise, spinning away from him on her bare heel.

"Can you not just _talk_ to me!" He did not understand what purpose this phrase would serve if sarcastic. He assumed it was literal and therefore unfounded.

"We are currently conversing."

"Without changing the subject and ignoring what just happened! What you just _said!_ " She rounded on him again, half the room between them, but she strangled the words and grasped at the air trying to vent her frustration. With a huff, she dropped her arms and stared at him with her distress. "You're just going to say _'I am tranquil, An'eth_.', aren't you?"

"As it is relevant, yes: I am-"

"Stop." She showed him both palms, then ran her hands back through the longer part of her hair, closing her eyes and drawing a deep, stabilizing breath. She shook her head, kept her hands in her hair, and turned away from him again. "I'm sorry, and it doesn't matter because you're tranquil. I get it. _I get it_ , just- let me be upset about it."

She walked to the night table next to her bedframe and opened the top drawer. She removed Amara's red and yellow amulet and turned with it, brought it to him, and handed it over. The amulet's worn wooden body was unchanged from when he had last held it, the item fitting neatly in his unsoiled hand. His thumb automatically pressed along the seam between the two pieces of wood and rotated the face of the amulet around the brass pin. He did not look at it as he spun the chantry sunburst, merely performed the familiar action.

It did not matter when she had found it or when she had remembered it or whether her memory had lapsed or not. What mattered was that it had been returned to him.

"Thank you, An'eth."

"You can leave." He continued to dress as she spoke. His shoes, his tunic, his belt, his keys, Amara's amulet. "I _want_ you to stay, I _wish_ you would, but I can't make you and I won't stop you." He stood there and he listened, and then nodded to show his understanding.

He left.

* * *

 **: )**


	23. The Amaranth Court

**Red October, The Elder One Theme**

 **Life okay, life. Life gets in the way of lots of things, especially updates.**

* * *

 ** _Echoes of Arlathan_**

The Amaranth Court

Like Soren, like Morrigan, Zevran was a chronic early riser. There was just something good for the soul in getting up and leaving warm, close quarters to experience the day before it truly began. Evening twilight was a silence which smothered day and made it fall asleep, but the predawn glow was a release and awakening that stirred the blood and helped the mind keep itself calm before the hectic nature of life resumed.

Zevran preferred to spend the early twilight atop the Vigil's battlements, with a brisk walk about her primary wall. His passing left footprints on the dewy stone walkways, his touch on railings, bannisters, and battlements streaking the wet stone with faint marks like lyrium on paper. Once, years ago, such obvious signs of passage would have set his anxious nerves twitching and fighting, looking for a way to avoid being so casual and open about where he had been. Years ago, after his return from Antiva, he had skulked these paths instead of walked them, scanned the horizon for darkspawn, for bandits, for smoke from the wrong chimneys and noise in quiet courtyards.

Now it was not so severe. Fifteen years without the Crows could make a man a little lazy. It was far less a patrol, far more a quiet part of his routine, comfortably fixed about his shoulders much like the warm black cloak hugging his body against the creeping autumn cold. He walked to be seen and was acknowledged by the Silver Order and Grey Warden watchmen, a familiar part of their twilight watch. When they were on good terms, Soren often accompanied him on these jaunts, albeit silently: it was a time for contemplation and only the rhythmic tap of boots on cold stones, not conversation. When they were not on good terms, Zevran walked alone.

Zevran knew he had grown complacent with this task, and complacency was likely to blame for the horrors of last winter, but Zevran had also been away in Highever when foul hearts and paid knives had scaled these same walls under cover of darkness and spirited out again in a storm too thick to swim through, nevermind see. He had been guilty of the matter only until Soren had talked him out of it, directed his mind and purpose to fixing what was wrong instead of the two of them crumbling away under the grief of Kieran's disappearance. Morrigan had done the same thing for Soren in turn and kept him sane throughout the war with Redcliffe, and as a family they had survived the matter.

They had survived the war, and now it was the peacetime lull that was killing them.

Zevran had apologized, or _tried_ to. Maker Only Knew how much he regretted what had been said and how he had come to let the words loose like that. Soren had not deserved it. Another fight about the Tranquil, about the Circles, about _literally anything else_ , Zevran could have lived with, but he had crossed a line and even Morrigan had stared with shocked silence at him when he had revealed his heartless stupidity. He had made a rash assumption, and he _knew_ he had hurt his friend in the process.

He had apologized for harming the memory of Eadric, but not in the pleading _'please forgive me I am a horrible person_ ' way. Soren had not said anything and Zevran would not have wanted him to. His statement, softly spoken the night of their argument, had been: _'My actions were unworthy of me, but more so unfair to you. I spoke where I had no right to, about things I knew nothing about. I am sorry, my friend.'_ No request for forgiveness, that was not how these things worked. Apologies were not meant to erase the wrongdoer's guilt, but to ease the wounded party's pain.

Soren had stared at him coldly when he spoke, then looked away from him in a manner of silent, frigid dismissal. They had not spoken since.

But perhaps they would speak now.

It was unfair to call the light creeping over the eastern road the _'sun'_ just yet. It was a soft and hazy white glow, parted by the form of the hills and captured in the rolling clouds of mists clinging to the Amaranthine countryside. From this wall, the view of the road and those hills was clear during the day but misted and quiet in the twilight. A tall banner was flapping in the gentle morning wind not far from where Zevran was walking, and beneath it stood a figure in a winged Warden helmet, fine Silverite boots and breastplate, but also the distinct fall and form of mage robes.

Zevran approached the Warden Commander, who did not look away from the horizon, and at the last possible moment he chose not to continue walking by. He moved past Soren and behind him, and then pulled up around his left side. The Grey Warden kept his arms folded, the Assassin touched the glistening stone wall with his fingertips, and the banner fluttered softly overhead with the occasional snap and furl.

They did not speak for some minutes, not until the sun was able to begin touching the sky with proper rays of uncut light. Vigil's Keep was too far inland to see the Amaranthine ocean but it felt like standing on the very edge of the known world when the dawn began to blind the coast.

Soren tilted his chin up slightly, his profile completely hidden by the enclosed walls of his helmet.

"Do you have your spyglass?" He asked, eyes still watching the horizon. Zevran tried to follow his gaze into the glare, but didn't have the same protection his friend was afforded by the helmet. Reaching to his belt, Zevran opened the case and withdrew the collapsed metal cylinder as requested. Soren took it, pulled it open, and placed it to his eye.

Zevran squinted again and this time was aided by the sight of something very small moving through the mists and catching some of the early rays. Too big to be a lone horse because he could see it with only a hard effort and a hand over his eyes, too small to be a convoy or army or even a company of some kind. But it was moving. The way the roads joined and wove together, there was no way to know if the carriage had originated to the north or south of them. Still, it would take some time for them to properly arrive at the gates.

"Keep an eye on it," Soren told him. He handed back the spyglass and then walked away.

Zevran put the glass to his eye and watched.

It took oh, say, maybe an hour before the carriage and its four horses were close enough in the morning light for Zevran to see that it was not a carriage in service to a recognizable lord. It was a hired vehicle, and the fluttering movement at its doors may have been a banner of some sort flung over it to give it presence but the bend of the road and glare of the sun would not reveal the insignia, and the one behind the coachman was blocked by the man's body as he drove the horses on. The carriage did not arrive at a gallop, but a steady canter. Still, to arrive so early they must have left and travelled for some hours in darkness. Risky, but possible.

So imagine his surprise when the morning finally revealed its secrets, and at the final bend before coming properly to the Vigil's lower walls, he saw the hand of the _Formari Guildsmen_ fluttering from the door. What in Andraste's name would possess the Tranquil to brave night-time travel?

Zevran was not the only one on the walls watching this approach, but he was one of the few who had very little to do about it. The carriage stopped at the main gate, which was not yet open, and was permitted inside once the morning bell began to toll. Zevran climbed down from the walls to the front courtyard of the fortress itself and was well ahead of the carriage which made a slow, steady climb up through the settlement to reach the second wall, and rumble inside. Soren was nowhere to be found, but doubtless had been told by now who it was. The fortress was awake: Wardens and militiamen milling about on their day of rest, some on their way to the chantry for prayer and paused by the arrival of someone new, others who had hardly a care and were simply going about chores and make-work.

The carriage was indeed a hired arrangement. The Formari ventured so rarely from Amaranthine that they had no need of their own stables or carts and carriages. The banner was a formality that nearly fell from the window where it had been hung when the door quickly opened before the footman could climb down and aid his patron out.

Three hooded figures exited the carriage. White sleeves and blue torsos, identical to how Ansera dressed himself. Only one was distinct for the great rope of gold around his shoulders and holding a medallion of great value at his chest: the Guildmaster _himself_ was in attendance? Soren would not like this. Another carried a large box in their arms and accepted assistance from the third Formari so as not to drop or be overburdened by the object. The fourth person to exit the carriage, Zevran was truly surprised to see, was Samar Ashera.

Zevran watched with open curiosity, guiltless in this venture in a courtyard hosting several other idle gawkers. He could not tell the race of the two hooded Formari accompanying their Guildmaster, but Samar looked reserved and pale. He was looking here and there without direction in the courtyard, clearly uncertain if he should remain with the people he had spent so many hours in close quarters with, but he did not make to vanish or hide either. Zevran remained out of immediate sight, but kept a clear view of what happened next.

Owain said something to Ashera and the elf nodded, remaining where he was.

Seneschal Garevel exited the keep, but he was barely within earshot of the carriage before Guildmaster Owain started walking. Walking away from the doors? He struck out at a sharp angle and his attendants fell in step with him, Ashera looking about with some reluctance before following as well. Of them all, only the sailor looked back when Garevel came into the courtyard proper and called out asking where they were going.

Zevran quickly and very quietly followed.

The Formari came to the keep's kennel and walked right through the open door, startling the Kennelmaster who asked what their business was and was summarily ignored. They went through the door into the keep's lower levels and here Ashera was looked at to lead them on, which he did without comment. Zevran followed.

He was not surprised when they came to the apothecary workshop door, and he was now close enough that one of the two attendants turned and looked at him briefly: a human man with vacant eyes who noted Zevran's presence, saw him open his hands in a gesture of non-violence, and then ignored him again.

"Open the door." Owain said, prompting a frown and odd fidget from Ashera who had already knocked and called through without answer.

"It's locked, he's probably not-"

"I would know that he is not practicing an effort of silence so as to eliminate the chance of being discovered." Zevran did not know Owain _well_ , they had met of course but he was quite irrelevant to the Tranquil and didn't have much reason to speak to him. But Zevran also knew Ansera, and it was not like a Tranquil to interrupt someone. "You have skills which may unbar the door without undue violence to the structure or integrity of it, and I would have you employ those skills now." Pick the lock? Zevran could do that for them, but he waited.

Ashera struggled for a moment before taking one knee at the door and finding the right tools at his belt for the job. Zevran could not see through the bodies in the way to judge his skill with the matter, but the door clicked open without issue or strain, and Owain pushed through the door before the brother had even shuffled out of the way.

Zevran's idle curiosity and intrigue vanished here, because the hard and abrasive line Owain took surpassed whatever his tranquil nature otherwise dictated. There was a pause before it, however, a catch in the doorway where Owain stopped and one of his attendants nearly walked into his back. Then he proceeded forward, and he raised his voice and spoke quickly and loudly, filling the room with the sound of sharp reproach.

"Compounder Second Class, Jylan Ansera, Formari Guildsman of Amaranthine, you will provide comprehensive and immediate explanation for your current physical state and the abhorrent lack of professional awareness displayed on your part by substandard communication practices. Refusal to comply with guild regulations will not be tolerated and it is already sufficiently clear that you will be required to return to Amaranthine City immediately."

The formari cleared the door and Ashera did as well, Zevran quick on the other elf's heels because what in _Andraste's Name_ would have Owain so-

 _Shit!_

"Jeevan!"

Zevran stopped hard in the door and stayed there. Ashera rushed to his brother immediately where the chemist had indeed been hiding quietly as his Guildmaster had warned.

"Guildmaster Owain." Ansera spoke in a delayed, stilted voice. He did not have his robes with him and was undressed to the waist with his hair knotted and unbound, a dark bruise was marking his gut, chantry amulet around his neck, his hands and arms wet to his elbows.

Ashera went from the brief observation of his hands to the sink behind him, looked inside and then returned to his brother. Zevran saw the dark red and purple spreading down from the corner of the chemist's mouth, and when he was physically turned to look at his brother there was another bruise on his face, barely sparing his eye from swollen injury.

"Who?" Samar demanded, voice shaking, his hands holding his brother's arms and then working down to his wrists, looking for his hands. "Who the fuck did this? Tell me- _tell him!_ I don't care, Jeevan, just tell _someone!_ "

"It has passed." Ansera dropped his eyes before giving his poor answer, and Zevran heard Samar's temper snap, eyes wide, and his hands painfully gentle as he pushed his brother's face up again to stare at his mouth.

"The Warden," Samar growled at him. " _Your fucking Warden!"_ Zevran moved forward, but he was stopped when the same Tranquil who had looked at him before noticed him again and moved directly into his way. He tried to step around and was stone-walled again, the Tranquil staring at him without reservation, hands hanging at his sides and voice dead when he spoke:

"Are you a Grey Warden?"

"No," he answered, and made a third, also failed, attempt to get around him. "I am in service to the Arl and would know what the hell is going on here so I may report back to him directly. Your guildsman is a denizen of Vigil's Keep and obviously the Arl's protection has been flouted; I would know why, and by whom." He had a horrible suspicion he knew who.

"Then you will expedite the matter by arranging either to have His Grace come here directly, or we shall go to his court." Guildmaster Owain made his statement from the sink, where he had reached down and now drew out a blood-stained shirt. The garment was only a very pale red from the water soaked through it, but blood was blood, and Ansera had been trying to wash it away.

Zevran did not know how he felt when he looked back at the chemist and saw his brother hugging him very tightly, the Tranquil's arms at first hesitantly, and then quite deliberately, returning the embrace in silence.

"Whose blood is that, Compounder?" Zevran asked, still barred from coming any closer by the Tranquil in front of him.

"It is mine."

"I would know why you are still here, Master Arainai." Guildmaster Owain spoke to him in a level voice, but his words remained quick. "You will inform the Arl immediately that I am removing my guildsman from Vigil's Keep. His brother possesses sufficient emotional motivation to ensure his present safety, and I the legal wherewithal to support and extract him. You may go."

"I still have questions and would know the answers before going to Surana empty-handed."

"Your questions and input are wholly irrelevant," Owain told him directly. "Vigil's Keep stands in blatant violation of agreements held between the Formari Guildsmen and the Arl of Amaranthine. My guildsman is injured, I will know why, and you will fetch the Arl." Zevran set his teeth.

"Neither the Arl nor myself are to be ordered about lightly, Guildmaster."

"Oh- will you just do what he fucking says!" Samar's voice rose over whatever Owain would have answered him with. There had been a tunic on the table that the other elf helped his brother pull over his head to cover him in the chilled room, but now the task was done and Samar looked away from where his hand was still gently holding near the dark bruises on the chemist's swollen mouth. "You don't run the Wardens, and it was a Warden who did this!" And how was he so certain?

"Samar-" Ansera was looking at his brother, but did not finish what he might have said.

"These are _teeth marks_ ," Samar turned on him with gripping sincerity. "I don't care how much elfroot you put on them, the deep one's going to scar. There's only _one person_ in this entire keep you'd let get that close to you and the fact that she kicked the shit out of you to go with it just-"

"That is not what happened."

" _Bullshit!_ I ran off Ariyah's drunk and I'll run your Warden through if I have to."

"Which Warden are you accusing?" Zevran interrupted them, a hot flicker crawling up his neck at the sailor's threats. He had every right to be angry, yes, but the Order was the Order and Zevran would _not_ take such language lightly.

"Samar, no-"

"The Dalish one-" _Athras,_ "-the redhead!"

"I was commanded not to speak of the arrangement." His brother's voice was blank, but quiet. "Not with anyone." That hush caught the ear of all in the room, including the Tranquil blocking Zevran who now turned and faced Ansera with silent interest.

"I compel you to explain." Owain demanded, having wrung out the shirt and now holding the blooded garment in his hand. Ansera stared at the floor and did not answer. "As Guildmaster, I command you to explain the matter entirely." His silence persisted. Ansera raised his hands a little and wove his fingers together, elbows bent, and although Zevran knew Tranquil did not become anxious, it still read like nerves to him.

Owain moved in on his guildsman and Zevran stepped into the path cleared by the distracted Tranquil in front of him, reaching Samar and taking his arm firmly to turn him aside for a quick exchange:

"How long have you known Athras was seeing him?"

"Since I fucking got here," the other elf hissed, shaking Zevran's hand off with a rude shove. Fine, be angry, Zevran was starting to feel it too. _Athras._

"Jylan," Owain's voice distracted them. It was quieter now, his voice still carrying the Tranquil monotone as it had the whole time, but somehow kinder. "As your friend, and as your mentor, and as the one who helped you survive the journey from Kinloch Hold to Amaranthine, I ask you to please tell me what has happened to you."

He hesitated still, but this time Ansera took a breath and looked up almost to his Guildmaster's eyes, dropping his gaze again to the medallion resting across Owain's chest. He looked small and vulnerable standing there without long sleeves or the warmth of his robes.

"I do not know where your authority stands in relation to that of a Grey Warden of Vigil's Keep."

"I surpass it by a considerable degree." Owain answered him with nothing but flat air. "Where the safety and wellbeing of all guild members is concerned, I hold supreme authority. I overturn the command made to compel your silence, and ask once more that you explain your circumstances as they exist to me."

"And to me." Zevran's eyes followed everyone else's when Soren spoke to them from the workshop door. Flanked by Nathaniel, who was considerably taller, and Garevel, whose reaction to the Tranquils' odd escape was now revealed, it lent his friend credible strength that he was still the most imposing of the three as they stepped into the workshop.

Soren observed each person in the room one by one with his cold blue eyes, settling very firmly upon Ansera who would not look up from the floor again, and Zevran himself, before moving on. Zevran was able, between these moments, to note how while all four tranquil in the room had turned to take note of Soren's presence, only Owain was bold enough to look to his face and not down at his chest or knees.

"I see that you had reason, Owain, to break from formality the way my Seneschal explained to me."

"I hereby annul Compounder Ansera's contract with Vigil's Keep." Owain's statement looked like it smacked Garevel in the face. Soren merely held up an open palm to the Guildmaster. "I have seen enough."

Ansera moved like he would speak, his eyes set on Owain, but then he stopped, he withdrew, he closed his mouth and his gaze slowly trickled back down to the floor. For a man without emotions, Zevran saw one who had just felt something break.

"I will not infringe upon your rights as Guildmaster, Owain, but I won't let you have that decision without compromise." Soren stepped smoothly forward and Zevran wondered if either hooded tranquil would move to block Soren the way they had him. They did not, but Owain did move forward to meet him and put himself directly between his guildsmen and his patron. "I will have an explanation from Compounder Ansera regarding his injuries and their cause, and no one is leaving Vigil's Keep until that happens."

They would not have this discussion here. If nothing else: Ansera was injured and not in any state for further questioning. His brother and the other Tranquil had arrived only an hour ago and had been in their carriage for hours since departing Amaranthine in a great hurry to get here. Garevel had the Guildmaster and his attendants follow him away, and Soren caught Zevran's eye again before gesturing to the brothers. An unspoken but understood request that he watch over them.

They were still on poor terms, but at least this showed Soren still trusted him.

Ansera's lip was treated with salve, and he accepted an elfroot leaf which he chewed and then tucked between his teeth and the inside of the same lip. Zevran was no healer, but he braced a hand on Ansera's chest and they worked together to confirm that no, he had not broken anything in his chest, merely bruised it badly. Without the shirt under his tunic, his arms were bare and Zevran saw another bruise forming down his forearm, but the Tranquil's only response was that he had fallen.

Doubtful.

Samar went to gather food and Zevran bade Ansera drink water before taking him back to his chamber, where his brother found them again with a portion of fresh bread and jam and a cup of strong tea with honey. Ansera was perpetually calm, of course, but even without saying so out loud it was obvious he preferred his brother's care and company to Zevran's.

"You look fucking exhausted," Samar said after his brother was dressed in fresh warm clothes. He seemed more put-together once his white and blue robes were around his body again, though he kept them both unfastened while sitting hunched and tired on his bed.

"It has been a shit morning." Zevran had to look twice at the Tranquil before he was absolutely certain- but- yes, Ansera had just used the word ' _shit'_. He'd cussed.

"I had not known Tranquil could swear," he marvelled openly, and both brothers looked at him.

"It is an accurate description," the younger one told him, the elder clearly biting his tongue trying not to tell Zevran to leave them alone together.

"Here, finish eating and I'll fix your hair." Samar indicated the floor and his brother did not protest, curling his legs on the stone floor while a white wooden comb was fetched. It took less than four passes from the comb before the chemist's sunken eyes began to actively fight to stay open, the stress pulling out of his shoulders and his head wobbling over his neck. Zevran pitied him.

"I don't think there would be any harm in letting him sleep for an hour or two, or however long we shall have before the summons." Samar looked at him sharply from over his dozing brother.

"Summons for what?" Zevran gestured to the nearly sleeping chemist.

"You returned to Vigil's Keep to find your brother bruised, bloodied, and yet claiming nothing is wrong. Do you not want the full truth of what happened?"

"It was that Dalish woman."

"I can guarantee you, Master Ashera, that Warden Athras is in plenty of trouble already." Hindsight was a terrible bitch: Soren should have _told_ Ansera that Athras was forbidden from fraternizing with him. Or Zevran himself should have done so, or Velanna. _Someone_ should have told him; Tranquil would not break commands from people with authority, and any of the ones who had been in that room to hear Soren's order to Athras would have been high enough to overrule her will to sneak around and cause trouble. "But unless like Owain you are satisfied with the bare minimum, which the Arl certainly is not, then your brother will have to answer the questions Surana has for him. I assure you, in a contest of wills the Arl will never fold to the Guildmaster." His pride would never stand for it.

Samar brushed and braided his brother's hair, and then helped him back up and into bed. Ansera barely lasted a few quiet minutes with his brother sitting next to him before he was fast asleep.

He did not stir when a quiet knock at his door revealed Velanna in a state of deep distress, and she seized on Zevran at once with questions about Athras. As Zevran had assumed: Soren had no intention of waiting before acting in some capacity. Nathaniel and two Silver Order soldiers had removed Athras from the Warden barracks, apparently with some loud fuss upstairs, and Velanna had come to ask why.

She only looked at Ansera's sleeping face before she went pale at the violence of his injuries. She approached him with the quiet intent to check the bruises but took Samar's cold and defensive stare as a clear sign not to come too close. Given her history and the bond once shared with her own younger sister, Velanna did not test the other elf.

"I can believe that she would defy Surana," Velanna spoke to him in a hushed voice by the open door. "But not this, _never_ this. His _face_ -" She covered her mouth with her hand, shaking her head when he offered her a hand in comfort. "I have to tell Valora."

"Have you heard anything Surana intends yet?" He felt he already knew. If Soren had ordered Athras arrested rather than simply summoned her and pulled her quietly out of sight, then he meant for people to see it happen and to talk about it like this. The Guildmaster was as angry and offended as a Tranquil could become, Soren would give him a spectacle to make addressing the issue into an act of humiliation and rumour.

"If you don't know, Zevran, then how should I?" She made a fair point, and didn't know the Warden Commander as well as Zevran did. She cast a longing look back into the room, but then left.

Soren was doing nothing to keep this quiet. The two armed guards who came to fetch them were flashy and unnecessary, Zevran was all the protection Ansera could have ever needed. Maker's Breath, his _brother_ would have easily sufficed. Ansera was roused gently and once awake seemed a little better for having napped, albeit for little more than an hour.

Zevran's concerns were validated as they left the small room to find the underbelly of Vigil's Keep devoid of life. The few servants they passed stopped and made a point of watching them, three elves and two guards, and there was clear recognition in how they were stared at.

There was chatter and activity on the main level of the complex when they arrived, Grey Wardens and Silver Order members milling tightly in the halls leading to Soren's throne room, which was also where they were headed. Recognition flared again in this place, conversation quieting, some picking up in volume and concern. The fortress was _rife_ with gossip.

Zevran was not angry when they entered the throne room with its burning fires and hanging iron braziers and found people waiting and already bearing witness to what was going on. Troubled, yes, but not angry. Between the pillars holding up the chamber there were Wardens, soldiers, servants, pages, and other craftsmen and denizens of the Vigil. It was their right to be here and Zevran could hear the breaths and shuffles of the people on the balcony over their heads looking down into the court.

Soren ran, when he was able to, a bloodless court. Death was too final, too violent, too irreversible. You could restore the honour of a disgraced knight if facts changed after the trial, but you could not stick their head back on and call it a day. Garevel's executioner's sword was a tarnished thing that probably hadn't seen daylight since the end of the Thaw nearly fifteen years ago. But bloodless did not mean safe.

There existed some, a rare few, who could run a court free of exposition and spectacle. The risk for them was to be accused of never doing anything; of ruling by proxy and never taking matters into capable hands. Soren would never dare risk such rumours. He wielded power too well to resist the precision of a political blow. Executions were spectacles you could not take back. Humiliation was the gift that kept on giving.

Why did he have to choose this matter to address in this way? Why not Grand Cleric Brona instead?

Soren was on this throne, not a common sight, but it fit the moment. His iron and bloodstone staff was clutched in one hand, the head ignited and glowing ominously over his silverite helmet. Next to his throne stood Morrigan, in the place of an Arlessa, and draped in deep purple silk with silver hanging from her wrists, ears, and spread down her chest. To Soren's left and occupying a similar space stood Garevel in a gold tunic and blue sash marking his office as Seneschal. Soren's warhound, Dinah, was sitting proudly at Morrigan's feet, ears up, snout raised with attention. Each a step below the throne stood Oghren in full Silverite armour, and Captain Renth of the Silver Order with her regalia, the two officers positioned so as not to obscure the view of the three people and hound above them at the throne.

This was the court of Amaranthine.

Standing before the Arl were the three Tranquil who had arrived that morning, the lesser two standing behind their Guildmaster, who had taken down his hood and remained looking directly up at Soren. Next to them, Warden Lavellan in his armour and wielding his own staff stood in front of two more Silver Order guards who were keeping Warden Athras in place with their simple presence.

She wore plain clothes and had either been stripped of her armour or simply caught without it. Her hands were bound in front of her at the wrist, more a formality than a real wish to hinder her: if Soren had wanted her hobbled, her arms would have been behind her and bound at the elbows, not down where she could see and hold them comfortably. She looked behind her when the crowd parted for them and she was uninjured, a good sign. Punishment was meant to come after judgement, not before.

The two guards abandoned them and Zevran had to act like he knew what he was doing and what had been said until this point, walking forward and bringing the brothers in his wake until he was standing just short of the line where the Guildmaster and the Grey Warden had turned to watch. Everyone could see everyone, and it was not a comfortable place to stand. Zevran did so hate being in the middle of a watching crowd.

"Assuming that we are all much calmer now," Soren spoke from his throne, seated there with proper posture but still the air of a man confident and comfortable in his role. "Compounder Ansera will step forward and enlighten both my hall and his guild regarding these troubling matters."

Maker, had he not been tranquil Zevran would have protested this: making the poor man speak in front of all these people. But tranquil he was, and when Soren didn't protest the way Samar moved with his brother and Zevran stepped out of the way to let them address the court, at least it was a small comfort.

It required less coaxing this time to make Ansera speak. He had his brother there beside him protectively, his eyes still cast to the floor. Faced with both the Warden Commander and his Guildmaster, whatever vow he had been held under finally broke apart.

Soren took each and every piece and hammered them into this Warden where she stood in her bonds. He showed that this was no unbiased court hearing: he already knew the outcome and he was making sure every other person in the room knew it just as well.

Athras had approached Ansera claiming to love him: a violation of the Commander's orders to stay away.

"No one else knew about that order, your grace!" Lavellan protested this, apparently Soren had allowed the Dalish mage to exercise some of his training as a Clan Second and First, an unofficial leader among the few Dalish Wardens. His arguments hardly phased the Commander.

"Must I announce every order given to every member of the Keep?" Soren countered. "Is it relevant that you know I have commanded Warden Sergeant Howe is to oversee the collection of damaged and rare books so they may be repaired and copied? Shall I announce Warden Ensign Rinald's patrol roster for the week? The order was issued, with witnesses, and summarily ignored."

Athras had made Ansera promise secrecy: it showed she knew the matter was illicit and forbidden, but had acted anyways. Lavellan looked to the girl for anything worth saying, but she dropped her guilty eyes.

It dragged on.

"I was not struck by Warden Athras." Jylan finally voiced his protest over what they'd said about his face. "I spoke out of place and in conflict with the Kennelmaster of Vigil's Keep. I overstepped my bounds as both elven and tranquil, angered him, and was struck for my insolence."

Soren summoned the kennelmaster, who was already in the room and had to be dragged to the front like one of his own guilty hounds by the crowd. Zevran felt his teeth grinding and let his face sneer and scowl at the stupid man, and Soren's staff adopted a particularly malevolent glow. Yes, explain to the elven Arl how beating a mouthy elf was _just the way things were done_.

He certainly made a good effort to do just that, but after his third time blundering over the phrase _'but he's elven, you see-_ ', Soren put an end to it.

"Do you strike my hounds, Kennelmaster?"

"Never, your grace."

"Do you whip them? Beat them bloody? Break their teeth with your boots?"

"Maker Preserve me, your grace, I would never dare."

"And yet you would do the same against your fellow craftsman? Seneschal, this is a matter of cohesion and safety for the Vigil's skilled workers, who fall under your dedicated husbandry." Soren's fingers curled around his staff, the Silverite tips of his gauntlets clinking audibly. Garevel nodded and stepped just out of the shadow of the throne, his lip curling up in distaste.

"Were this only a matter of a seasoned professional coming to blows with a young journeyman, Master Harris, I would overlook it. But the Compounder is a Tranquil, the harshest insults he can give are merely distasteful observations of true behaviour. I will not believe you were baited by him, nor will I permit the notion of you flying wildly into rage and beating a man down into the dirt without provocation. Were you drunk, Master Harris?"

"N-No, Seneschal."

"Unfortunate, then, as that was the last possible excuse for such behaviour." Brawling when drunk was cause for censure, yes, but even Zevran could admit that what a man did drunk did not always require the same punishment as the same acts committed sober. "Therefore, with His Grace's permission, and with profuse apologies made to the Formari Guildsmen for the treatment of their comrade, you will be entitled to three months pay and immediate dismissal from Vigil's Keep. Your grace?" Soren lifted one hand dismissively.

"I stand by the expertise and wisdom of my seneschal." Harris made a weak noise, but offered no greater protest to his dismissal. "Escort this man back to his quarters, any tools and belongings he claims as his own he is entitled to take with him." One of the guards stepped forward and did just that, leading the man away. "Your opinion, Guildmaster?"

"Swift and decisive action from your grace offers confidence that breached trust may be restored," Owain stated flatly, hands hanging at his sides. "But I insist once more on the immediate annulment of Compounder Ansera's contract with Vigil's Keep and his return to Amaranthine city." Zevran could not know how intentional it was, but at the Guildmaster's words Ansera seemed to droop, his shoulders falling, his head heavy.

"So it may come to pass," Soren answered smoothly, "Have you anything to say or demand of the Warden brought before you?"

One of the two tranquil Owain had brought with him turned and looked at Ansera, then stepped forward and looked at the Guildmaster until he acknowledged them. Rather than say anything, Owain nodded.

When the tranquil spoke, it was a woman's voice that came from her hood, carrying the faint accent of Orlais.

"Compounder Ansera is tranquil, as am I, and elven, as am I. I would know if this woman was to him as the Templars once were to both of us. I would know if there exists any possibility of safety for a lone member of the Formari Guildsmen in Vigil's Keep, or if we must remain in our guild as we once were sequestered in the Formari Quarters. I do not imply corruption of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, only caution where the belief that we exist only for the pleasure of others may persist."

Soren's face darkened, it was subtle, but there. He looked past the hooded woman and did not address Athras, he spoke to Ansera:

"Answer your guildwoman's question, Compounder." Zevran watched Ansera wither so completely even Samar noticed it, holding an arm around his brother.

"I believe it incorrect to assume that she interpreted her actions as such, Formari Cyril." Cyril turned to look at him. She was a pale elf, impossibly so, with hair so light it looked as if she might have been a ghost.

"Compounder, you have been told to answer me by the Arl of Amaranthine, and will do such."

"I have answered you."

"You have not. You are not _liaison_ to the Grey Wardens: did she use you as such regardless of the distinction?"

"No such distinction exists, Formari Cyril." Zevran felt his chest hurt, and realized he was holding his breath. "I am tranquil and furthermore my station as Assistant Apothecary of Vigil's Keep renders me to a position inferior to that of any Fereldan Grey Warden. When assigned a task I am capable of completing there is no excuse for refusal or resistance. My position hinged on my ability to remain both agreeable and useful to the fortress." Maker _no_.

"She forced you to-?" Samar was breathless from shock, staring at his brother who would not look away from the other Tranquil. When Ansera broke eye-contact with her, he stared not just at the floor but down at his own feet, his hood obscuring his face completely.

Zevran felt the cut and hiss of magic somewhere in the room, but it was not coming from Lavellan or the throne.

"Warden Commander Surana!" A hoarse, brittle voice scratched the air and several Wardens were jostled and pushed aside in a sudden rush to move away from the _enraged_ woman whose staff sparked with blue arcs and her white and violet-edged robes fluttered with the rippling light of the fade. "I would address this court and my brothers and sisters of the Order!"

"Warden Corporal Sephri," Soren acknowledged her, "You will regain yourself and mind unnecessary displays of raw magic in my hall. Only _then_ will you address this court."

Sephri was not looking at the throne, she was staring at Athras. She squeezed her eyes tight and her fists shook with effort, but her magic calmed, her light faded, and she strode out from the line of watchers and came to a place in front of Zevran, at the foot of Soren's dais, and then turned to address the hall.

"Brothers and sisters! Grey Wardens of Ferelden!" She shouted, shaking with anger. "There are so few among us who know anything of the Circles of Magi and the expectations places upon mages subjected to the Rite of Tranquility. Before this circus carries on any further, I would have every _last_ one of us know the weight and meaning of the words these people throw at each other. Warden Commander, may I keep the floor?" she asked as a point of respect, and Soren nodded although she couldn't see it.

"You may."

"The Templar Order," Sephri continued in her shaking voice, "with the blessings and authority of the Chantry, _owned_ the bodies of every Tranquil in every Circle. Theirs was a religious brotherhood with rules I will not comment on, and beliefs I will not repeat, their crimes…" She closed her eyes, gathered herself, and picked up elsewhere. "I worked with the Tranquil of Starkhaven and later those of Kirkwall, that was my distinction within the Circles before I came to the Grey Wardens. And I know that it does not matter which Circle a Tranquil was given to because if anyone, Templar or even Mage, felt their lusts burning with the need for release without judgement or censure, then it was to the Tranquil that they would turn. Tranquil who do as they are told and cannot resist, will not protest, to whom obedience was the only recourse to avoid greater pain and punishment. My brothers and sisters, are we _Templars?"_

A grumble of discontent echoed through parts of the hall, dark looks passing between assembled Wardens. The red lyrium monsters of Corypheus? The addicted spectres of the Chantry? The madmen who had helped tear their country apart fighting the mages?

"Do we feed off the very people we took our oaths to protect!" Athras was suddenly very pale, her gaze thrown to Oghren's feet. Lavellan looked stricken and his gaze moved from Sephri to Athras and back again, horror and disgust competing before it all dissolved into the same pain. "Do we take, and take, _and take_ without thought for what it means or who we hurt?"

The crowd grew louder, the doors out into the crowded halls were no longer closed: but wedged open with a few people passing in and out, repeating words and spreading the going-on of the court throughout the keep. This was not a private show, Soren had every intention of letting his people hear _every humiliating word_.

' _It's just politics,'_ Zevran felt himself rationalize. _'He's not had to deal with desertion or insubordination since Velanna ran off years ago, and she is another Dalish Warden who has ignored him. He's just making an example of her, he's supporting the Tranquil, it's just politics. Isn't this what I wanted from him?'_ No it wasn't. No he had not wanted this. It wasn't support for the Tranquil if he was just using them as a reason to be cruel. It wasn't cruelty that served a purpose, only spectacle and fear.

The crowd was making up its mind the same way their Arl had, the same way the Guildmaster had, the same way Sephri had, the same way…

" _Lethallan_ , _"_ Lavellan looked like the crowd had pulled his heart from his chest and then handed it back to him like a cruel novelty. When he spoke it was softly enough that Zevran only heard him because he was this close. "Did you do this? I can defend your heart but not your actions if this is true, An'eth, answer me…"

"I don't even know anymore…" there was guilt and fear in her, a crushing weight of regret. "I thought… but when he left this morning, how he spoke to me, I…" When she looked away from Lavellan it was to find Ansera, who was still staring at nothing but his feet.

"What?" Samar said behind him, and Zevran looked to the brothers again. He focused on them and not on how Sephri triumphantly stepped back into the fold of the crowd, near the edge of it and visible, but no longer centre stage in the court. "Jeevan I can't hear you? Speak up, I can't…"

Sudden silence swallowed the hall and Zevran was too distracted by that to hear if Ansera answered his brother or not. He looked and saw Soren's hand raised, a sign that things were nearly at an end.

"Warden Lavellan," He addressed the other mage respectfully. "The concern and honest efforts made on Warden Athras' part speak highly and well to your credit, but the matter seems clearly laid before us. Have you any further arguments to lift, or are you prepared to abandon the floor?"

"I…" Lavellan was a mature man, easily older than Soren or Zevran, but suddenly his years seemed to pile up and bend him. "All I have left to offer is the fact that Warden Athras was sent to the Grey Wardens as a holy envoy of great significance to her clan. I can only beseech your grace to remember the friendship and mutual respect enjoyed by Clan Zathrian and the Grey Wardens of Ferelden. But… I… He is Tranquil, and I find the matter unsettling now. I ask for forgiveness, not absolution. Mercy, Warden Commander. Mercy for a wayward sister."

Zevran held his breath again. Soren _did_ know mercy, but his was always the worst kind: it was unpredictable, not always at the back of his mind, but sometimes his intention from the very beginning. He had spared the most surprising people over the years, but then turned and offered absolutely no quarter with others. Even worse, he was the sort to toy with the notion: to dangle it like food over the heads of the starving, only to plunge his blade down through their heart instead.

Why else would Queen Anora hate him so? The man who had spun such detailed and believable tales of compromise and resolution in her salon, of mercy for the madman who had torn Ferelden apart, and then carved his head from his shoulders with absolutely no hesitation? He was a liar and a good one. He used mercy like the finest of poisons.

Lavellan withdrew with his plea for mercy and Soren looked to the assembled tranquil, to Owain.

"Formari Guildsmen, your final word?" The Guildmaster straightened up and spoke.

"We call for the execution of this woman." An'eth wobbled as though she might faint, the crowd rippling quietly with shock.

"That is excessive." Ansera remembered his voice. He remembered how to move. He pulled away from his brother and walked past Zevran, came abreast with his Guildmaster and looked to the throne, but not Soren's face. "There is no precedent for such action."

"Violations against the guild charter must be addressed to the fullest extent allowed," Owain corrected his guildsman and Ansera turned directly from the throne to the taller tranquil. He would not look any higher than Soren's chest, but Owain's eyes he met directly.

"The charter carries no clauses which stand violated."

"You are incorrect, the clause exists and the accepted punishments are clearly defined."

"They do not exist." Ansera repeated himself in a faster voice. "I know the charter. I drafted the charter. I was the first of the Guildsmen after you were made Guildmaster; I sat and I wrote each clause as they were debated and discussed between yourself and the Arl of Amaranthine, Patron of our Guild. I have drafted the changes considered by your office for application to the guild and I did not write any concerns addressing personal or sexual relations."

"The clauses in question exist and have been ratified by a vote of the Guildsmen in Amaranthine City," Owain corrected back, and the hall was torn between listening to them and whispering to each other. "You were not present as you could not be reached and were remiss in your communications."

"I should have been informed."

"Had we known it would be relevant, you would have been."

"I should have been informed regardless of relevance as I am a member of the Formari Guildsmen and am owed the courtesy of my own guild charter's inclusions and changes." He was speaking so _quickly_ now that Zevran-

"A copy of the charter has been prepared for inclusion among the tools and documentation required by whichever guildsman may replace you after your return to Amaranthine City." And Owain matched him, no anger, only speed.

"I will not be replaced," Ansera stated, staring straight into the eyes of the other tranquil. "I will not be replaced on the basis of critical and guiding information being withheld from me by both my Guildmaster and the Arl of Amaranthine. That the arrangement was forbidden by the Arl was never communicated to me; that the decision was made before I was approached on the matter was never communicated to me. I was not consulted. I was not given the means to make appropriate decisions when my consent was sought by Warden Athras."

"Your actions did not require guidance as you have not acted in violation of your duties. Your safety has been repeatedly compromised and you will return to Amaranthine for your own safety. You are the victim, the victim of crimes committed by-"

"-The Formari Guildsman and Office of the Arl of Amaranthine," Ansera interrupted and he did so in a voice which carried and quieted the hall, shocking Zevran dumb in the process. "The crime is entrapment, the victim is Warden An'eth Athras of Clan Zathrian, Envoy of Dirthamen, disrespected and rendered a scapegoat. I will not be manipulated by false claims of security when my safety was compromised by you, not An'eth: by you."

" _Gentlemen._ " Soren lifted and struck the end of his staff on the floor, a resounding noise breaking from the stone and dragging their attention back to him. "That is quite enough, Owain. You will take your guildsman back to your hall where he will have the time and peace to readjust and remember himself."

"Yes, your grace."

"No-" Ansera was ignored.

"The Guildsmen reaffirm our pledge in this matter: we seek the execution of this woman for the crime of rape."

"It is excessive and you have no basis-"

"Compounder Second Class," the woman, Cyril, stepped into Ansera's way when he moved to confront Owain again and stopped him. "You will remember your place in these matters." And then, in a louder voice so she could be heard: "As Formari First Class of our guild, I second the pledge put forth by my Guildmaster. Execution for the rapist."

"It is unnecessary, Cyril, she is no danger to-" Oh Maker, they were using this as a moment to set a precedent in Amaranthine law. The flavour of the facts meant nothing, the fact was a member of the guild had been raped, and the maximum punishment outlined in their charter was execution.

"As Formari Third Class, I third the pledge put forth by my Guildmaster. Execution for the rapist."

"It is entrapment, Nasser." Ansera's arguments meant absolutely nothing, this had already been decided.

"You have the victim in these matters pleading for mercy, Warden Commander," Zevran heard himself speak because _no one else_ was. It didn't _matter_ if it contradicted the Formari's plans because it was _wrong._ "I pray you are listening to him." But if Soren and Owain had planned this together, then there was absolutely no hope of that…

"Warden Athras, have you anything to say in your defense, to refute the claims against you beyond your insubordination and willful disregard for my commands?"

"I… _I…_ " An'eth's head would be on the gates by noon. The trap had been laid and it didn't matter why it had been triggered, she was caught and would die in it. "I never meant for _any_ of this to-"

"I renounce my position within the Formari Guildsmen of Amaranthine!"

Even under his helmet, Zevran saw the jolt of _shock_ that struck through Soren when Ansera raised his voice. Blessed Andraste, it was the wash of cold water over sinister flames.

"I surrender all right to their protection and reject all supposition of aid." He continued, and it was Owain's turn to be ignored as Ansera continued to speak over him. "I am unbound by their charter; released from their obligations and remove myself from their hierarchy. I renounce my guild; I am without profession and I move to dismiss the Formari from these proceedings as they have no place in this court and no jurisdiction over me."

Just like that, he swept the rug out from under Soren's feet. He was shocked, Zevran knew just from the way his entire body refused to move and the light of his staff dimmed so far it nearly went out. Zevran wished he had a chair to fall into from the shock of it all.

Formari Cyril turned and left the hall, she had been dismissed.

"You are tranquil," Owain said, and had he put a little bit more into it Zevran would have called him confused, maybe even hurt. "The guild is the only protection you have."

"I no longer consider the cost of that protection to be worthwhile." Ansera's hands were moving, and Zevran realized it at the same time everyone else did that he was prying the white quartz ring he always wore off his finger. Rather than hand it to Owain, he dropped it to the floor and then knocked it away with his foot. "I expect such manipulations to manifest in the halls controlled by First Enchanter Irving's successor and protégé, but not among the Formari Guildsmen. Good day, ser."

"The position of Assistant Apothecary is reserved for a member of the Formari Guildsmen of Amaranthine, as outlined in the contract held by the Seneschal." The third Tranquil, whom Ansera had called Nasser, spoke with a deep voice that was as unperturbed by all of this as the wind outside over the keep. Ansera was unbuttoning his blue formari robe, and he threw it on the floor in front of him. "You are elven. Therefore; it is reasonable to assume that you will starve to death without employment or protection within the next month. Maker Go With You." Nasser left the way Cyril had already vanished. Ansera unbuttoned and removed the white robe like the blue, leaving himself in his shirt and belt and trousers, no outer layer to keep him warm or to mark him as a guildsman.

Zevran saw Soren flag Garevel's attention with one hand, and the Seneschal bent to hear something whispered to him. Zevran's fervent pleas to the Maker or Andraste or Hesserian or Shartan himself all fell flat like ash from the air. The quiet horror that broke over Garevel's face said far, far too much about whatever Soren told him. He nodded, consented to what was asked of him, and returned to his place.

"Jylan," Guildmaster Owain spoke, and the hall was deathly silent as the drama played out for them. "Reconsider this."

"Maker Go With You, Owain."

"You will die."

"Maker Go With You, Owain."

Owain closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, and finally cast his gaze to the floor. He found Ansera's discarded ring and crouched for it, picking it up off the floor before turning and exiting the hall without another word.

' _Maker have mercy, Soren._ ' Zevran closed his eyes because the thought hit and echoed within him. _'Maker have mercy, please, please have mercy. He's trying to save her life, don't play the tyrant with this. Maker have mercy, brother, please…'_

"Compounder…" Soren's voice did not come out right, because he remembered half-way through the name that Ansera had just renounced it. "Master Ansera… as the ruined party in this matter, what do you demand of the Warden who wronged you?"

Not only did the Maker not answer Zevran's pleas, he put the worst possible answer into Ansera's mouth:

"I demand the Warden Commander show humility and dismiss these proceedings entirely."

Behind the throne Morrigan's eyes widened like she'd been hit, and Garevel nearly stumbled from the shock. Renth's face was pulled with scandal and Oghren was looking at Nathaniel who was not far away in the crowd, throwing his hands out like _'what the fuck do I do now?'_. Startled words fluttered around the room like trapped birds winging between the pillars.

" _Excuse me?_ " Oh Maker, Soren was going to have Ansera imprisoned if not struck dead where he stood. Zevran wanted to just sit on the floor and put his head between his knees, this madness would not end.

"I am not a failed mage, your grace, I am a failed politician." That made even less sense! "As I have already surrendered my guild ties and forfeited the right to my employment, any additional punishments for speaking truthfully must be relegated to purely financial, such as the unlawful withholding of my wages or belongings, or physical, in the manner of imprisonment or beatings. As this is a public forum, I am skeptical on both counts."

"What the _hell_ are you talking about?"

" _Jylan-_ " Athras' first word in long minutes, she had taken Zevran's thoughts and lived them, now sitting on her knees where her legs had completely failed her.

"Your grace asked me what I demand from the Warden who wronged me, and I demand the Warden who wronged me dismiss these proceedings."

"Have you lost your _mind?_ " Zevran let himself wheeze the words out tightly because it was the only sensible thing _anyone_ could say to him.

" _I_ am not the rapist in this room, Ansera," Soren's voice hinted at his anger but he was still more shocked than enraged. How _dare_ the idiot talk to him like that! He was going to get himself killed! "If you allow this, there will be no taking it back."

"Dismiss these proceedings."

Soren's anger was palpable, and Zevran didn't know if he had the emotional strength left to judge him for it. Let this end, just let it be over.

His friend lifted his staff, banged the enchanted end on the floor, and silenced his hall again.

"Release the rapist," he ordered, and the guards standing over Athras shifted oddly, then knelt and removed her bonds. The only sound as the manacles opened were her gasps and hiccups of relief. "These proceedings are dismissed." They could leave, it was done.

"I'm taking him home." Zevran turned and saw Samar standing there with both hands over his face, fingertips pressing his eyes into his skull. "I'm taking him home; I'm not leaving him in this fucking hell hole."

"I hope you get the opportunity," Zevran told him, _exhausted_ by all of this before he turned to look at the throne again. Oghren had vanished into the crowd which was now dispersing, Renth was meeting with several of her men and casting repeated looks at Athras. Soren was listening to Garevel and Morrigan speak quietly over him, his fingers laced together in front of his shielded face.

Zevran watched his hands, heart hurting. Any moment now, there would be a sign from his friend indicating Ansera, not to kill him of course, but to have him brought somewhere private where any of those horrible accusations made in the heat of the moment could be dragged out and the Tranquil punished for them. It didn't matter if it was true: if Soren had done this with Owain's approval and knowledge; if they'd set a trap for Arthas and tried to spring it on her. None of it mattered, Ansera had accused both the guild _and_ the Arl and in a more vicious court that would be a death sentence.

Soren's hands didn't move. The hall was emptying.

Please don't let his hands move.

" _Jylan-_ " Sweet Andraste, _no-_

" _An'eth!_ " Lavellan's voice barked in the din.

The sound of her voice made Ansera walk a little faster to reach his brother, a change Zevran was not alone in noticing. Maker, but it looked like fear, even if it wasn't supposed to be.

She tried to reach him and Zevran was not in the right position to get between them. An old, old reflex turned his head sharply when he heard the suck and pull of steel against leather. His own knives, small things, delicate but sharp, were between his fingers without having to think it, and the only thing that stopped his wrist from sending the blades slicing through the thin front of Samar Ashera's soft clothing was what _he_ did first.

Because it was so deliberate. So unmistakable.

The flip from blade to pommel, and the quick release between two fingers that launched the knife hilt-first through the air. Hilt-first, not blade. Non-lethal, a warning. Not a mistake either: he had drawn it and habitually held it by the tip for a pinch grip, then flipped it on purpose and released it like a dove from a cage.

The hilt slammed into Athras' eye and dropped her with a horrified yell. The blow bought Zevran time and he was between them before Lavellan could recognize what had happened and bring magic to a knife fight.

"Enough," Zevran said, telling himself not to be impressed with how very quickly Samar had two proper fighting blades out in his hands. Lethal things, well-taken care of with blades that did not match the hilts _at all_. There was no way steel with etchings like that owned the rough leather and wood hilts attached to them. No, no, that was a method of misdirection, right there. "I understand, but no."

"She stays the hell away from him." He was offended when Samar made the statement by waving one of those knives in his face. Unnecessary! "I'll not warn her twice."

"Then do not linger here. Take your brother to his room to calm down, _both of you_."

"The arrangement is concluded." The tranquil was behind his brother now, and did not look around or over his shoulder at Zevran. "I will not see her again."

"Yes, Ansera, I understand. Go, there will be gossip enough for weeks over this, you fool." That knife waved past his nose again.

"Watch it."

"I am already watching _your back_ ," Zevran told him shortly. " _Go_."

And in the din and upset of the emptying hall, finally, they left.


	24. Dismissal

**Alright, so, months ago I mis-read the Wiki page explaining Thedas' stupid calendar. So I've shifted every date back ONE MONTH starting from this chapter.**

 **BIOWARE WHY**

* * *

 _ **Echoes of Arlathan**_

Dismissal

"If I told you that I had no intention of actually executing Athras, would you believe me?"

Zevran didn't think he wanted to have this conversation, but the hysteria of the day lent itself to passivity. He had left the Ansera brothers in their room but surrounded by frantic friends and fellow servants, and returned first to Soren's busy court chamber.

He had arrived in time to hear Captain Renth of the Silver Order disrespect a Grey Warden for the first time. Gone was Warden-Corporal Athras, the human captain was incensed over the Dalish Rapist and had already commanded patrols and scrutiny of the other woman's activities.

An'eth had been struck by the blunt end of a throwing knife and it had bruised her eye terribly, but she had been gone with Mahanon Lavellan still idling in the court chamber. Zevran's quiet inquiry had resulted in the other elf looking very uncomfortable for several seconds, then stating he'd told her to find elfroot balm to handle something as delicate as an eye.

The former First's real answer tumbled out moments later:

"I can heal an eye," He stated brutally. "Maybe not as easily as Surana or Guerrin, but I can handle a bruised eye just fine. What I can't do is erase the only justice Ansera's family squeezed out of today: no Keeper would dare invalidate a family member's anger like that. He showed honour enough by using the hilt instead of the blade on his brother's rapist, you can't expect me to provide relief of such a minor sting when she _could_ have been just as easily dragged to the executioner's block without Ansera throwing himself on a sword for her. I know he meant it as a rebuttal to the Commander and the Guildmaster for manipulating things in their favour, but Jylan didn't _have_ to protect her, and the other- Samar? He didn't _have_ to use restraint."

Everything could have gone so horribly, and Zevran was convinced that this was only the beginning of Athras' troubles in Vigil's Keep. The people who worked the fortress thought her a rapist whose victim had protected her. The militia had a Warden to resent for her horrible actions but preserved status. The Wardens had someone undeserving serving right beside them.

It would get ugly, but not today. Today Zevran was here, in the war room and seated around the massive table with its enamelled map of Ferelden set into the dark wood. Soren had opened two bottles of wine, Oghren had opened a modest cask of ale, and Nathaniel was bleary-eyed from drinking both while trying to settle his head after the upset in the throne room. Zevran had sipped slowly from the wine: it was one of the darker, heavier vintages that Soren preferred and it sat in his mouth with its rich flavour.

Soren waited, fingers threaded together in front of him, and was still looking at Zevran when he pulled his gaze from the wine to the Arl.

There had not been much talk this afternoon. Oghren kept repeating to himself and the table that the whole matter of Athras and Ansera was _'unbelievable_ ' and _'out-of-hand_ ' and _'doesn't make a sodding lick of sense'_. Nathaniel drank deeply from his cup and Zevran couldn't remember if the human was drinking wine or ale presently, and it probably didn't make a difference to him. When Nathaniel did choose to speak, it was to repeatedly murmur _'what's Connor gonna say?'_ or _'I should be the one to tell him. I'll tell him. He should hear it from me.'_

Athras had been given the Joining largely due to her own abilities, but Connor's contribution and support had been crucial to seeing her get that far. She was, in an informal manner, _his_ Warden. Connor's connection to Ansera didn't require explanation. It all made a mess of matters: Connor's Warden had exploited and harmed his best friend and dependant. The young mage would lose more than just his composure when he returned home to this revelation.

Zevran finally answered his friend. So he he'd had _no intention_ of sharpening the executioner's sword?

" _Are_ you telling me that, or are you being facetious?"

"Does it make a difference?"

"Yes."

"Then no, I'm not being facetious, Zevran, I'm telling you: I had no intention of executing anyone."

"Oh, Thank the Maker," Nathaniel coughed the words, eyes closed, and sat there on his seat with his eyes shut, brows gathered like he felt a headache coming on. "I couldn't stand hearing Owain say it like that."

"But you were plannin' _something_." Oghren's gruff voice rumbled out from under his breastplate. "You can't bullshit us." Soren's smile should have comforted him but Zevran was not satisfied by the twist of his friend's lips.

"I don't remember trying to," he said lightly. Zevran sipped his wine again. "I hadn't made up my mind exactly, but I didn't think it would be appropriate for Athras to remain in Vigil's Keep. If that meant simply sending her off as an envoy somewhere or out of the Wardens completely, I hadn't decided. If that bit of fire and venom from Renth means anything, she'll probably be gone by her own volition by midwinter at the latest."

"So Ansera threw himself on his sword for _nothing_..." Nathaniel was nearly wheezing, eyes still closed, lips barely moving. Had he not been a Grey Warden Zevran might have considered that he was about to pitch over from too much drinking. Two bottles and a small cask between three Wardens was nothing. "Connor deserved better than this."

Zevran felt his teeth set against the rim of his glass. Oh, _Connor_ deserved better? The Grey Warden and Archmage? The man descended from one of the strongest noble houses in Ferelden, who had exclusive power and control over his sister's extensive wealth until she came of age? _He_ deserved better from all this? Boo-hoo, he wasn't the one out of a job, out of his guild, and likely soon to be out of his home if the rumours whirling throughout the keep were true.

"We'll just have to address it when he comes home." Was Soren being politic again, when he agreed that Connor needed support? Connor was thousands of miles away, he would _survive_. "For now, it's important that things move forward. Garevel will see Ansera compensated and I'm quite certain his brother will help him settle elsewhere if he doesn't make the right choice and go back to his guild. Owain will take him back."

"And if he doesn't want to go back?" Zevran asked, removing the glass before he could bite down and fill his mouth with cutting shards. Soren's dismissive look was not helping.

"He's tranquil; he'll want whatever makes the most sense and that means apologizing and making amends with Owain."

"He threw his ring on the floor, my friend. You don't need to be emotional to understand the insult behind such an act."

"To quote the seneschal," Soren drawled back, leaning back in his chair with his fingers still tented in front of him. "The only insult a Tranquil can give is a distasteful observation of true behaviour. He probably dropped it just to avoid coming too close to the Guildmaster." That was _not_ how it had happened and Zevran took a steady breath, refusing to take the topic any further. They were not going to argue again. He swallowed more wine and then moved to refill his glass. Soren amicably picked up the bottle and poured a generous serving for Zevran and then emptied the last of it into his own glass.

The Wardens talked the matter of elves and tranquil to death and finished their drinks.

Zevran sat there and weighed his options.

* * *

Jeevan was tranquil. Samar kept thinking he understood this, but he didn't, and fuck him if he was okay with trying to get around this fact again right _now_.

He said he wasn't upset, just tired, and Samar wanted to grab him and shake him and get him to just _be upset_. Get angry! Raise his voice! Cry a little- _anything!_

But he wasn't. He couldn't.

He'd lost his job and- _Maker's Breath_ , that should have been the least of it but it wasn't. Samar wanted to take and unpack every single thing he'd just gone ahead and _assumed_ about Warden Athras and make his brother explain it _all_ , but neither of them could get over the hurtle of his job. He'd lost his _job_.

"The monthly payments sent to our siblings in Gwaren will end." Samar didn't know how much that amount was in silver and copper, but Jeevan repeated it too many times for them to ignore it. Samar didn't know how much Rian made these days; he knew Ariyah's washing and laundry work only amounted for a few coppers a week. Saya- _fuck_ , Saya made _less_ when she made anything at all, and Jenna worked for room and board. "It will be difficult to find work due to my condition. Because I am elven, any work I do acquire will likely result in wages undercut due to my race."

"Anything you make will be something," Samar blurted out, head spinning. "But you've gotta take care of yourself first, you're no good to anyone if you starve to death on slave wages." He could read, he could write, he could do maths and that wasn't even touching on any of the shit he did as an apothecary. He'd find a job if Samar and Rian had to knock on every door in the city.

"I do not know how soon I will be expected to leave Vigil's Keep."

"You'll come with me to Gwaren." It was the only thing that made _sense_ and Samar wasn't wrong for saying it because Jeevan didn't correct or refuse him.

"I do not know if I possess the necessary coin to afford passage on your ship."

"Are you saying you've kept _nothing_ for yourself?" Samar would take it out of his own pay for this trip then. There, done.

"I do not know-" The sound of someone knocking on the cell door startled both of them and Samar was the one to open it with a hand on the blade at his belt. If it was _that woman…_

" _Jylan!_ " It wasn't the Warden, it was the _Hamae_ Valora. The small woman had wisps of grey hair falling from the tight bun atop her head, her black shawl slipping off one thin shoulder. Samar got right out of her way and let the midwife rush into the room and put her hands on his brother, who was silent and staring blankly at her. "No- no! It's not what they're saying, you can't be sent away- _no._ "

"I have not yet spoken to Seneschal Garevel, but my dismissal is assured."

" _No!_ " The old woman was crying.

"Ansera-" A young elven woman followed the midwife: her granddaughter Vessa. Black hair and pale skin with thin red lips, Valora had probably been a looker like her when younger. Samar had spoken to Vessa a few times: she was a hunter and forager who knew the wildlands around the Vigil and usually worked the fortress's chanter's board. She stopped and gave Samar a respectful nod, waiting for him to gesture for her to come inside before stepping past him.

"You're going to give me a straight answer, Ansera. What did An'eth do to you?"

"It is a complicated matter, Mistress Vessa."

" _Bullshit!"_ Vessa shouted, and Samar took a breath to shout her down. "She's a Grey Warden and _my friend!_ "

" _Hey!_ "He barked at her, getting the hunter to spin and _yes_ he'd get into it with her if she took that line with Jeevan.

"True or not, Vessa, the solution isn't to _fire him_!" Valora was beside herself, but her voice had no bite and no command in it. The words crumpled and she caught herself with tears and a shaking breath, turning from them to pull her arms around Jeevan in a tight hug. He didn't react to the embrace at first, and only very slowly came around to return it gently.

"It's a fucking mess, is what it is." Samar agreed solemnly, looking at Vessa whose eyes were only for her grandmother's shaking back. "If she's _your friend_ then go talk to her, and make sure she knows to stay the hell away from my brother and I."

"Fine, I will," Vessa told him straight. "Hamae?"

"Go find out, girl." She left after that, but Valora remained and Jeevan was able to coax her to sit on his bed with her face in her hands. He stood completely still and just watched her for a few long seconds, then roused himself and repeated:

"The payments to Gwaren will end." Samar didn't know how to get him passed this.

"I've got half a sovereign to my name when we get into Gwaren, Jeevan, that'll get everyone through the winter."

"You're taking him south?" Valora looked up with her question and Maker Take Them she looked _ancient_. "It makes sense, but it's so far… How large is your family?"

"Our sisters have five kids between them," Samar explained, "Another brother a year older than Jeevan, and a sister whose barely of age to work." The midwife was counting on her fingers.

"How old are the children?" Oh _Maker_ , she was making him remember things he didn't worry himself with unless he was home.

"Eldest can't be more than eight, I think? Saya had hers this summer." He didn't know if the babe had survived since then but he knew Saya herself had been alright after the birth. Valora was pawing vacantly at Jeevan until she found his hand and grasped it, looking up at him woefully.

"Before you both leave, make sure you come by my hutch. Even if your sisters don't end up needing what I give you, _someone_ in the alienage will." Jeevan nodded.

"Thank you, Mistress Valora."

"If you're dismissed, Jylan," she continued, "Don't you dare leave a single one of your tools behind in this keep. Connor bought every single knife and mallet and bowl in that workshop, and he got two of everything for a reason. You take what's yours and you leave nothing behind, not a chipped glass or worn out sock, you hear me?"

"I will consider it, Mistress."

"Not consider, _do_."

If Valora wanted to come with them then Samar wouldn't have been against paying for _her_ passage too.

Jeevan didn't know if he was still allowed to eat from the Vigil's kitchen but that question was solved by a brisk-looking dwarven woman and an accompanying human, both of whom smelled like roasted mutton and baked bread. Samar recognized the sad-eyed human woman as the one who regularly passed out the servants' dinner. She was holding a covered platter of something and she was very mild as she stood behind the dwarf, Mistress Felsi.

"Garevel's got his ass on his head and no brains worth boiling if he turns you out on your nose when it was _that Warden_ who can't keep her man-eater muzzled!" Samar, a sailor by profession, had no words and no composure to use in the wake of the _profanity_ that dropped from the Quartermaster's mouth. Andraste's Sweet Bosom, he expected it from fishwives and soldiers and sailors like himself, not _kitchen cooks_. "You eat this, and you eat the whole damn thing. Lick the plate before you bring it back! I'm giving the seneschal and my lummox husband a crust of bread and an apple for dinner. Valora, you come with me: you need the right kind of drink and I know where the Arl's good wine is."

The human woman left extra cutlery before nodding quietly to them and leaving with Felsi and Valora. This left Samar and his brother alone again, and even if Jeevan didn't feel curiosity he still knew hunger, and Samar couldn't leave it alone anyways. Neither of them had eaten since that morning, and it was well into evening by now.

A bed of salted and roasted turnips with onion halves and a beaten cloud of potatoes whipped with butter. The _meat_ was dark and rich and glistening with roasting oils, a pot of gravy sitting on the side, fresh peas decorated with rosemary strands piled up beside that large chunk of _meat_. Actual red-blooded _meat_. He'd only been in Vigil's Keep for a few weeks, but even Samar knew a _Warden meal_ when he saw and smelled one.

Fuck, this was a goodbye meal. Samar made sure not to take more than his brother did. Jeevan took the first and last bites from the plate, all with the same blank, vacant look he always wore. His eyes didn't tear up as he was given food cooked in a way he might never taste again, he didn't suddenly stop and look miserable, or turn away and withdraw from nerves or pain. He just stood there and they ate together.

Try as he might, and as close to smiling as he came, Jeevan couldn't make his brother actually lick the plate.

"You're really gonna go against the woman who gave you this meal?" Jeevan gave him a blank, mile-long stare, then regarded the picked over platter again. "She said _lick it_."

He wiped it with his thumb and sucked the juice and gravy off like that a few times. Close enough.

Samar's almost-good mood was threatened the next time he opened the door, and was met with the sight of an elven servant wearing the blue and gold livery of the castle. Not everyone who served the Wardens or the Arl got to wear a tunic and belt like that: Jeevan didn't, the Quartermaster didn't, no one who worked outside the keep proper did either. As far as drone workers went, this was a higher ranking one who spoke down his nose at Samar despite being so much shorter. Samar, in turn, wanted to hit him on his straight little nose.

"The Seneschal has summoned your brother, ser." If the Seneschal was gonna turn Jeevan out an hour before sunset then Samar was absolutely going to hit _someone_. "Follow me."

They followed, and Samar watched his brother very carefully as they walked. He seemed to have forgotten that he'd stripped off his guild robes because he kept his head bent down like he still had a hood to hide under. It took until they were well on their way before Samar noticed he couldn't hear Jeevan's footsteps at all: had he always walked like that? Rolling on the outside of his foot, not quite taking a full stride? It wasn't the smooth and capable glide of someone who was sneaking around without wanting to be heard, Samar could do that pretty well when pressed, but Jeevan was just walking quietly.

No, he hadn't always walked like that. He didn't do it when they ran errands around the keep, he didn't hunch over unless he didn't want to be noticed. In hooded robes none of it would be easy to catch, but he was just in a tunic, trousers and boots right now: it was _obvious_.

"Hey," Samar took his arm gently with one hand, throwing off his balance and forcing him to take normal steps again and look at him. He forced a smile and Jeevan just looked at him with his vacant thousand-yard stare, and it made it harder to hold the smile. "It'll be okay." He didn't expect an answer.

"No it won't." Samar… would have preferred silence.

The servant brought them to the Seneschal's office up somewhere in the middle floors of the keep and then slipped inside briefly. He came back out and opened the door for both Samar and Jeevan to enter, then bowed and left.

"Master Ansera, Master Ashera." Garevel was on his feet to greet them behind his desk, and he had two chairs set out which he swept his hands toward. There was a fatigued shine oiling his cheeks and brow, and the room smelled stale from the unchecked fire and stacks of ash from burned parchment. His great ledger was still spread atop the desk, but it was pushed over to the side and forced to the corner, a bunch of satchels and items and one strange wooden box taking up the rest of the space. "Please, gentlemen, a seat. Have you both eaten? I will ring for something if not- in fact, Linderel!"

The elven servant reappeared at the door. Samar twisted to get a good look at him.

"A bottle of the Arl's good cherry wine, if you please- two bottles!" Linderel let his eyebrows move way up his face, but with a nod he vanished again as silently before. If this kept up the Arl wasn't going to have any more of his good wine left.

"Today has been…" Garevel spoke but his words rambled off to nothing. He stared blankly between the chairs Samar and Jeevan had taken across from him, and then thumped one hand on his desk. "It doesn't matter how it's been on my end. Forget I even opened with that. Master Ansera, do you remember what this is?" Garevel reached across his desk for the wooden box Samar had seen already.

"Yes, Seneschal."

"Good, because I'm giving it back to you."

The box was richly stained cherry heartwood, but not that old because it wasn't that dark, just _red_ from the stain. It was about two hand-lengths long and half as deep, stood a span high. The top of it was decorated in painstakingly carved panels, none of which Samar could see properly from his seat, and there was braided copper running around the seam between lid and box with a small latch keeping it shut. Garevel touched the box when he spoke, then nudged it closer so Jeevan could reach it.

"Have you found it insufficient for your needs, Seneschal?"

"Perish the thought," the human told him. "I'm deeply reluctant to part with it, but you will find it more useful from this point on and I have the means to acquire another one. If you would open it, please?"

Jeevan stood and did as he was told. It was just a box but Samar watched Jeevan fiddle with something on the side: he slid a piece of wood and withdrew a slim copper rod from the hidden compartment, and used it to stroke the panels on the top. He drew something on three of the panels and they lit up with a soft magical light, like sun peeking between curtains. Then the latch clicked and he carefully returned the rod to its place, closed the secret door, and opened it. The box was lined with what looked like fine red velvet, and was empty.

"Did… did you just use magic?" Samar just had to ask because Jeevan _had been_ a mage.

"No, it is an enchanted mechanism." Jeevan explained, remaining on his feet because the Seneschal was busy looking sadly at his stupid box. "The rod and latch are infused with a small amount of lyrium, and the carvings on the box's lid and sides were made with specially refined tools. Without forming the proper connection from key to lock, it will not open."

"I commissioned it from your brother some months ago," Garevel explained in a sad voice. "Formari lock boxes are no small investment, but your brother was able to borrow the necessary tools and lyrium to craft it for me. They cannot be picked or pried open, and the magic necessary to overwhelm the lock would destroy the contents. I honestly expected you to just glue six pieces of wood together and slap a lyrium rune on it, but the craftsmanship alone is- ugh, ignore me. It's just a box. I'll get Formari Nasser to make a new one."

"So why are you giving it to him?"

"…Nasser will replace me." _Oh._

Samar curled his lips into his mouth and pinched them. Tranquil, right? No emotions, supposedly? Then why did Jeevan's quiet voice sound like a fucking knife in the ribs? Garevel made the most uncomfortable face, lips withered and white and his eyes wincing.

"I am afraid, ser, that your contract has been formally annulled by the Formari Guildsmen." Fired. He'd been fucking _fired._ "The Guildmaster was here until not long ago and made it clear that you need only return to the guild hall in Amaranthine to reinstate yourself as a member, but under no circumstances are you to reengage in your employment at Vigil's Keep on their behalf." Samar jumped on this point.

"So why not just hire him again with the same contract but without the guild?" There were sailors' guilds in cities across the waking sea and beyond. Little rag-tag unions of labourers and navigators and shipwrights and every other learned position aboard a vessel. They usually ran a tough gambit in the cities they were based in, made ships who called that port home suffer a little, but the benefit was a crew from the same guild would run and work hard together, turn a higher profit, and keep together for years at a time rather than just a few contracts. Still, even the strongest union would bend in the face of a sound decision made by a trusted captain.

If the Guildsmen were like those companies in the Free Marches, then there was formality but no actual power to stop Garevel from being the captain of his ship and hiring Jeevan back on for the job he was good at.

"The Arl has announced his support for the Formari Guildsmen." Don't use that weak-ass _'woe are the wiles of the sea'_ bullshit voice, Garevel. Samar felt his grip getting tight on the arm of his chair. "As their patron, he has instructed the Guildsmen to receive the highest priority in these matters. Formari Nasser, as I'm quite sure you're aware, Master Ansera, exceeds your qualifications by a significant margin…"

"Nasser is a Formari with extensive training in the art of Enchantment and Lyrium refinement." Jeevan rambled off the statement and fell silent.

"I am deeply sorry, ser." Jeevan didn't answer. He stood there like that without moving until Garevel cleared his throat and asked him to sit again.

A soft knock admitted Linderel back into the room with two bottles of wine, three glasses, and a pitcher of something. The other elf flipped the glass cups and set them soundlessly on the crowded desk, presented the wine to the Seneschal for inspection to make sure it was the right bottle, and then uncorked and poured a small sample.

"Oh, just let me do it." Garevel waved his hands at the servant. "A fine job, thank you, but I take no pleasure in all this. Is this water? Good, thank you, that's enough."

Linderel was sent away again. Garevel poured the wine for the three of them, taking less for himself before topping it with water. Samar wanted to throw the red at him. _Spineless._

"So you're firing my brother because the Arl's scared of his guild," Samar hissed, clutching at his temper. "And in exchange he gets a fancy box and a glass of wine?"

"And six months pay, Master Ashera." Garevel answered him quick and didn't tell him to shut up, but he spoke over Samar when he opened his mouth again to- "I know a wrongful dismissal when it's put in front of me, serrah, and as Seneschal and the man who held your brother's contract, I intend to make as much good on it as I can. Did you not ask me why I am giving the box back? Would you not know the reason?"

Samar clicked his jaw tight and _shut up_.

"The typical allowance for dismissal is three months pay, Seneschal." Jeevan spoke in his level voice and the Seneschal looked away from Samar, nodding to him.

"Yes, and I have decided to increase it to six, because I said so." Well. _Fine._ "I would know if you prefer to have the amount withdrawn in coin and presented to you now, or sent away in installments to wherever you desire. If you remain in Amaranthine City, or find employment in Denerim, I will not deny you your pay, ser."

"He's coming with me to Gwaren," Samar snapped and Garevel gave him a sharp look, sucked in a breath, and then looked determinedly back at Jeevan. The human didn't speak until his brother did.

"I would request that the six months severance be forwarded in equal installments to the Gwaren alienage, Seneshal."

"Very well, I shall make note of it." Garevel moved around in his seat and reached for his great ledger, and did just that with his wooden pen. "As your brother Rian has done for the last year, you will be able to withdraw the money from the Dwarven Merchants' Guild outpost in Gwaren on the first of each month. The severance pay will begin on the first of Firstfall."

Jeevan was quiet, but then said something stupid:

"Seneschal, today is the twenty-nineth of Kingsway. The first month of severance should be the first of Harvestmere." Firstfall was the month _after_ Harvestmere.

"I suppose it will be seven months pay then."

"Seneschal-"

"- _Jeevan._ " Don't- argue about this! Shut up! _Shut up!_ "Drink some of that." He pointed at the wine in his brother's hand.

Okay, Garevel was spineless but not… _evil_. The human was totalling something in his ledger, tapping the end of his pen on things and counting quietly, then scribbled something down, and reached for the small satchels laid out in front of him. He picked up two, three, four of them and tugged the lockbox closer, placing three inside and offering the fourth to his brother. When the pouch landed in his hand, Samar's ears heard coin.

"When you determined that you would send the entirety of your wages each month to Gwaren, interested parties intervened of their own accord and supplemented your income." Wait, so, Jeevan _did_ have money? Like, his own money? "As was required: eight silver per month has been sent to your family, but a tenth of that amount was paid for by said parties, permitting an equal amount to remain in your name here at home. This was done so as to ensure you had something to live off of if you grew too old or ill to work, or as an additional boon if you died in service to the Vigil, upon which your family would receive the full amount now before you. Please do not be angry with Connor, he was not the one who arranged or paid for this, but he has known about it."

One-tenth of eight _silver_ was almost _eighty copper_ a month. Samar didn't know how many months he'd been sending money home for, but-

"The remaining balance would be five and a half silvers for seven months of transfers," Jeevan knew the rest of the math to finish the equation, and opened the bag in his hand. Sure enough, there were twenty copper pieces inside when he poured a few out to look at them.

"Not including your wages from during the war, and since the time of your arrival at the Vigil." Now Garevel had an abacus out with its clicking beads, referencing his ledger a few more times and turning the pages to get the information he wanted. "From Harvestmere of Nine-forty-three, with the outbreak of the war in Haring, nine-forty-four, and your return to the keep in Guardian… Three months of war service pay is an additional six silver… eight silver a month from Harvestmere to Cloudreach…" More clicking and humming, and then a hand raised to the two of them. "I already calculated this earlier, but it never hurts to be absolutely certain… yes."

Five silver and sixty copper saved from his transfers to Gwaren. Six silvers for _war service pay?_ The war Amaranthine had with Redcliffe? And his pay before that, minus what little he'd spent on his own, was another _fifty silver_ -

"You only spent six silver on yourself in a whole half-year before finding Rian?"

"I did not have cause to spend more."

Garevel gave him twenty copper in that little pouch, and then handed him a silver coin to add to it. The other _sixty silver pieces_ were split into three small purses with blue tassels and placed in the lock-box. Now Samar got it: if his brother was going to carry a small fortune around on a ship and into an alienage of all places, then he needed to keep his money safe. Garevel was making sure that even if Jeevan got robbed blind, the thief would never actually get the silver out of the box to use it.

Samar himself was entitled to fifty silver when they reached home, but he'd never dare carry that much coin around in his pockets. His pay was a leather seal he'd get from the captain and cash in at the company office, and then run like a dog back to the Alienage to squirrel away and _hide_ the coins where nobody would find them.

Maker's Breath, between the two of them they were taking an _entire fucking sovereign_ home. Rian would weep when he saw them.

"There. And now that that is settled…" Garevel stood up, turned to the cabinets behind his desk, and unlocked one before withdrawing a wooden box with another lock on it, he placed that on the desk, opened it up, and while humming… Seals? Papers? What now?

"I understand, ser, that as a Tranquil you may not have been emotionally perturbed by repeated insistence from your former guildsmen that you will _certainly die_ without the Guild's protections…" Garevel clicked his tongue and pulled out two more seals made of bone and ivory, then replaced the box and came back to his desk, opening a drawer and withdrawing several already written letters. He placed a mat of soft leather under the letters and sat down. "But I am not as resilient to such claims and poor behaviour, and I simply will not tolerate such outright disrespect in my Lord's hall."

Garevel lifted a stick of wax that had to cost more than all the money in Jeevan's box. It was blue, for one, with gold leaf glittering through it. He heated it over the candle on his desk, smeared a long line of it across the bottom of a page illuminated with fine black, red, and blue ink, and then slammed one of those seals on the wax, pressing hard before taking two of the smaller ones and marking the page with them.

"Should you choose to return to the Formari Guildsmen at any point, that is entirely at your own discretion. For the moment, however, I will do my part." The letter was handed to Jeevan, who didn't seem to notice at first because Garevel was heating the wax again for another stamp. He hit the paper so hard Samar was afraid he might tear it, but this was _good_ paper. _Good_ paper didn't rip.

Samar gently took the first letter from his brother, and Maker it had to be the most expensive thing he'd ever touched.

The Arl's crest was drawn with deft black lines and fine glossy ink over the top and down the sides of the page: the Amaranthine Bear and Grey Warden Griffon flanking the tall tower of Fort Drakon. The wax seals were, in descending order: the Arl of Amaranthine, the Wardens of Vigil's Keep, and the Seneschal himself.

But the _words_.

 _To Relevant Honourable Persons,_

 _The bearer of this letter is Jylan Ansera, an elven man of Tranquil nature, strong in body and fit of mind, and capable in all faculties. He carries the strongest recommendations of the Seneschal of Amaranthine, Lawrence Garevel of Vigil's Keep._

 _Before you is a candidate of employ with the finest education provided by the Ferelden Circle of Magi. His knowledge of chemistry, alchemy, botany, geometry, and mathematics are peerless among his kind and his aptitude for academic and scholarly pursuit are without equal. Diligence and the active labour of accomplishment colour his working hours with a glow the Maker Himself must have placed upon him._

 _Confidentiality, professionalism, obedience, and respect are his ample currencies. His employment within Vigil's Keep has been of the highest quality and it is with great reluctance that he has been released from his contract._

 _Any challenges to his abilities or disrespect afforded to his elven nature will be taken as challenges and disrespect against myself personally as a Knight of Amaranthine and Seneschal of the Estates of the Arl of Amaranthine, Hero of Ferelden, Archmage Soren Surana of Ferelden_.

 _Walk in the Maker's Light and let Andraste's Guidance open your eyes to the wealth of opportunity before you_.

-Seneschal Lawrence Garevel of Vigil's Keep, Administrator of the Estates of the Arl of Amaranthine, Hero of Ferelden, Archmage Soren Surana of Ferelden

Samar thought his eyes would drop out of his head. He gave the glossy parchment back to his brother and this time Jeevan actually read it. The second letter was exactly the same as the first, with only one change: instead of Jylan Ansera, this one was for _Jeevan Ashera_.

Another set of letters, slightly less terrifying from the first two, didn't go as far as calling Jeevan's abilities into question a slight worthy of Garevel taking that sword and shield down off his wall, but they still came with his titles and the weight of his seal. If Jeevan wanted to, like, work for the Teyrna of Gwaren, the _Queen_ , then the first letter would be good. If he just wanted to squeeze into the first little apothecary shop he found in the city, then the second letter would be a bit less ready to smite the owner on the spot.

All four letters were placed very _very_ carefully into the lock-box.

"Will your brother be making the journey to Gwaren aboard your ship, Master Ashera?" Samar was now fucking scared of the human across from him, and Garevel was done being spineless and weepy. He drank his wine and set it down with a smug, powerful grin that Samar was _never_ going to be okay with watching on a human's face.

"Uh- yes, ser. We assumed I would pay for his passage, but-"

"Nonsense, the Vigil will pay." Okie-dokey, Samar was _not_ going to argue. Garevel pulled out a different kind of paper this time, almost bone-white and stiff, and he wrote in his neat and even script before stamping it at the bottom, handing it to Samar. It was a writ of passage. Holy _shit_. Samar had seen nobles use these to get from place to place, not _elves_. "Present this to your captain."

"Yes, Seneschal."

"Drink your wine, Master Ashera," He drank his fucking wine, he did. "It is the Arl's favourite and wouldn't do to waste. The second bottle, along with my personal regards, you will also present to your captain." Yes, he fucking would.

"I don't recall you bringing many belongings with you to the Vigil when you arrived, Master Ansera."

"No, Seneschal."

"You own the tools in the workshop and I expect you will need a trunk or two in order to pack them all. You may request the aid of any servant in the keep for the task, and I will have two trunks delivered to the workshop tomorrow morning. A cart and driver will also be arranged to transport you safely to Amaranthine City, with accommodations until your ship is ready to embark."

"Thank you, Seneschal." Jeevan was staring and not moving: he was as fucking confused as Samar was and _good!_

"The workshop's current quantity of refined lyrium, serrah, what is it?" The sudden question kept Jeevan quiet as he thought.

"Only a set of four vials, Seneschal."

"Provided the lyrium fits safely and without concern into the lock-box, you will depart with that as well."

"I do not understand, Seneschal."

"You are no longer a part of your guild," Garevel told him briskly. "The fact that you were never fully trained as a Formari is now irrelevant: you _can_ enchant items, and you _can_ make Formari goods. But without access to the Guild or the Chantry you'll have an impossible time finding the lyrium for it. Formari Nasser can order his own; you will take the workshop's supply with you."

Jeevan was quiet for way, way too long, but finally he nodded.

"Thank you, Seneschal."

"That is nearly everything I called you here for, but Master Ashera, if I may have but one moment alone with your brother before you both retire for the evening?" Oh. Okay. Uh, yes. The man was throwing money and prestige at Jeevan like chum in the water. He could have asked Samar to do a hand-stand and sing an Orlesian folk song right now and he would have done it gladly. He finished his wine too fast to enjoy it and stood.

"I'll be outside, Jeevan."

"Seneschal?" Garevel turned a surprisingly warm look on his brother.

"This will not take long, serrah. This is a matter of you, myself, and Warden Guerrin."

Samar stepped quietly, very very quietly, out into the hall. Shutting the door closed off the quiet conversation he left behind, and when he turned around he was looking at the servant Linderel.

The elf had his arms tightly crossed over his chest, a bitter look twisted all over his face.

"What? You step in something?"

"The Seneschal actually fired your brother, didn't he?" Oh-? He'd read Linderel as one of those straight-laced foreign trained servants, the sort who could spout poetry and knew how many forks went with the master's salad. Apparently not so. "An elf gets picked on by a Grey Warden, and _he_ loses his job?"

"Maybe I'm too stupid to read people, but the Seneschal's awfully pissed about it too."

"It's the _shem_ Guildmaster, the whole keep's whispering about it." Linderel looked like he was about to spit, but was just a _little_ too well groomed for it. "The Arl always picks shem values over us, every time."

"Ain't he supposed to be some champion for elves?"

"If a champion makes sure the Amaranthine alienage looks no different from the ones in Denerim or Highever, then sure." Linderel's lips curled in an ugly way. "Isn't it funny how your brother was an _assistant_ despite doing three times the work and being around more than Guerrin? Some noble-born _shem_ mage; Surana's favourite." Yeah, Samar had wondered about that whole assistant thing for a little while.

"How much do Wardens get paid, anyways?" They got a stipend or something, but Linderel just snorted at him for asking a stupid question.

"Doesn't matter how many pieces when each one's made of gold." Okay, well, _war heroes_ , but that just made it sting a little more when Samar thought about it. Jeevan had helped the war too, apparently. Athras made such a good living, and now she got to _keep_ her living while Jeevan was shown the door?

"How much more of that fine wine does his lordship have?"

"None," Linderel said in an open, honest voice. Way too open, way too honest. "Rats in the cellar, you see. They chewed right through the wood and brought the whole casement crashing to the floor, broken bottles everywhere. I haven't told the Seneschal yet, we're waiting until the, how should I say it, _mess_ cleans itself up." So the servants were drinking themselves stupid on the master's best vintage? Risky, but probably worth it.

"Would you like any help with that?" Samar asked with a smile. It felt like flirting. It felt like the other elf flirted back when he heard the proposal and brushed a finger over his lips as he listened. "Can't eat if I don't do _some_ hard work around this place."

"I think that would be _very_ much appreciated. The kitchens have been such a mess this evening: one of the Wardens' meals went _completely missing_ , and all the poor leaf-ear got was a crust of bread and an apple." Leaf-ear; Dalish; _that bitch_.

The door opened and Jeevan came out, carrying the lock-box with both arms, the bottle of wine for Samar's captain clutched by the neck. He looked no different than he normally did. He closed the door to the Seneschal's office behind him and looked at Samar, then Linderel just to acknowledge him, then back to Samar.

"I am not confident that I will be able to keep the contents of this box adequately safe for the journey to Gwaren." No, don't talk like that.

"Well I am, because I'll stick a knife in the first person who isn't you that tries to take it." Linderel snorted at him again. Hey, _stop that._

"In that case, I'll inform the rest of the help not to go near it. Isn't that the Seneschal's?"

"He insists that I will make better use of it."

"It's _complicated_." Samar helped his brother, rubbing his shoulder a few times. He felt cold without his robes on. "Go lock it up in the workshop, and maybe start organizing what to pack and what to leave behind. Unless you want to come along and get drunk."

"Why not?" Linderel agreed. "I don't think we've ever seen you drink more than a cup of something." Oh, Jeevan was doing his stuck-frozen thing again.

"…I do not know what that would accomplish." Linderel shrugged at him.

"Or not. It's in your honour, but if you change your mind just come into the kitchens, you'll hear us."

"I will return to the workshop." Jeevan decided.

"And _you?_ " The servant asked, a lilt in his voice that sounded an _awful lot_ like flirting. Good, the evening was trying to make up for the shitty morning and afternoon.

"If there's a job that needs doing, then I'm just the sailor to call." And that job, an hour or so later, involved a lot of the best wine Samar had ever tasted, with some of the best company in the keep. For his last night in Vigil's Keep it didn't hurt that the Seneschal's manservant wasn't _quite_ so straight-laced either. A wimp who fell asleep with a bottle of wine in his blood, sure, but at least there was a bit of fun before that point.

Oh well.

Fuck Amaranthine.

Samar was ready to go home.

* * *

Knives and hand tools, seventeen pieces, steel.

Mortar and pestle, incredibly heavy, marble.

Mixing bowls, fragile, ceramic and glass.

Mixing bowls, not fragile, wood, copper, and steel.

Flasks, incredibly fragile, tempered glass.

Flask casements, light, wood.

Cauldron, heavy but not fragile, iron.

Cutting board, moderate weight, wood.

Refined Lyrium, fragile and volatile, four tempered glass flasks.

Formari lock-box containing unprecedented monetary and lyrium payload, cherry wood, not to be left unattended.

Gloves, apron, work-belt, personal notations book, graphite rod.

Four wool shirts, four cotton shirts, four pairs cotton trousers, four pairs wool trousers, four pairs socks, two tunics, one black robe, one winter cloak, one pair boots, one pair shoes, one leather apron, four sets smallclothes.

Embroidery loop, one set sewing needles, one set embroidery needles. Four bundles dyed thread, two bottles personal dye: yellow and green. Half yard embroidery pattern, incomplete.

Three hand-towels, personal soap, tooth powder and brush, comb, mirror. Personal tea blend.

Amara's pendant.

His entire room was packed in less than ten minutes; the workshop took significantly longer.

"No! _No!_ You're not leaving!" The greatest weight on his efforts were the constant interruptions, the most noticeable of which came from Rowan Guerrin. "You can't leave! _You're not allowed to leave!_ "

"Although this transition may be difficult-"

" _You're not allowed to leave!_ " Tears, and sobbing, and stomping feet. Fierce hugs which made it hard for him to breathe. A violent outburst of emotional magic which tore the borrowed spell-book to pieces and left it smoking on the floor. "Connor won't let you leave- he'll make you stay! He'll come home and he-"

"Lady Rowan, your brother is many months' travel from Vigil's Keep, and even if he were to return he could not hope to overrule his superiors." This fact did not reassure or calm her. This statement caused a fierce negative reaction which sapped her of immediate voice and focus. She became very quiet, but not calm, and fled the workshop in short order to escape the reality that he was leaving.

"For a girl her age that was… that was a lot." Samar was mildly hung-over, but still capable and willing to help him pack. Fragile items were folded into Jylan's clothes and placed like puzzle pieces into one of the two provided trunks. "Is she okay?"

"Her sense of anxiety around change is alarming, but she reacted much the same when Connor left." Jylan explained, and resumed wrapping another glass bowl in one of his own wool shirts.

They were interrupted by a woman Jylan did not know, who offered him a small bundle of smoked deer meat and green vegetables, along with a pouch containing a piece of silver.

"For your journey," she said.

"May I ask why you are giving these to me?"

"Last week my husband fell into the brick-maker's fire and badly burned his arm and leg, but he says you stopped the pain and helped him long before the healer even arrived. Thank you, Serrah, Maker's blessings on your journey."

The food was placed on the work-table, and the silver was added to the amount inside the lock-box.

"No- _no_ , lift it again." Samar cautioned, and Jylan pulled the mortar up and held it in both arms. It was very heavy. "What if we shove some of _my_ clothes in there to cushion this thing? Why is it made of _marble_ for Andraste's sake?" Because-

"Are we interrupting?"

" _Please_ interrupt us," Samar complained, and Jylan placed the mortar down on the table so he would not drop it.

It was Warden Velanna, and her husband Warden Nathaniel. Samar pumped water to get himself something to drink and was ignored by the Wardens. Velanna hugged him, Nathaniel apologized to him for losing his job.

"You'll be safe aboard a ship for most of the journey, but it _never_ hurts to be cautious, _Lethallin_." Velanna handed him a wrapped bundle which contained two leather arm bracers and a steel fighting dagger.

"I will give these to my brother."

"No, they're for _you_ , Jylan."

"You are mistaken, _Hahren_. I do not know how to fight."

"Well, nothing _flashy_ ," her husband incorrectly assumed with a jovial tone. "But the basics, of course."

"I do not know where you assume I would have acquired such knowledge or practice."

The Wardens became alarmed by this very simple reasoning. Samar also expressed alarm. Jylan did not know why they had assumed he could fight: he was tranquil. Any combat training he had received as an Apprentice was many, many years behind him now and had never progressed beyond introductory staff technique. He did not recall being very good at it.

"Okay well this, _this_ you know what to do with." Warden Nathaniel reached for something at his belt and looked at his wife, who nodded and made an encouraging gesture with her hand. "From Velanna and I, and some of the other Wardens. We'll not let Connor think we turned you out cold while he was gone."

Four gold sovereigns were placed into his hand by Warden Howe.

Warden Velanna hugged him very, very tightly.

"Don't you _ever_ ," she told him, her voice thick with tears, " _ever_ , hesitate to ask for help if you need it, _Lethallin_. I don't care how small it might be, you write and you tell us." She released him and they left.

He placed the money into the lock-box, but under the velvet bottom in the secret compartment containing the coins Garevel had sent Samar from the room before giving him. The five gold coins already in the box had been taken from Connor's account in the Seneschal's ledger, technically an unlawful act of theft, but one Jylan had not been able to successfully deny and which the Seneschal was convinced Connor would have demanded.

"Fuck, you can't fight. Fuck. _Fuck_. I didn't think of that. Fuck."

"I will be safe in Gwaren."

Samar made a noise which did not lend confidence to his assertion. It was necessary to remember that he was elven, therefore not easily or often protected from harassment by simple decency. He was also tranquil, a condition which rendered him an easy target.

Hm. Fuck.

Warden Lavellan interrupted their final act of packing by giving Jylan sincere apologies and speaking a Dalish blessing to protect him for his journey. He offered a pleated scarf of warm fennick fur to protect Jylan from the southern cold, and a small stone of beautiful amber to sell if he came short of money.

Warden Sephri gave him a blank spell-book, the purpose of which he could not divine as he did not possess magic or spell-power, but the book was finely made and of good quality. She also hugged him. She threatened retribution for Samar if Jylan should die on the journey to Gwaren, but then gave his brother a pendant which hummed with protective light before leaving.

"I must visit Midwife Valora."

"And get your dog. The _dog_ is how we're gonna get around you not fighting, I feel better now."

Jylan was wearing his boots, wool trousers, a wool shirt, a tunic, and the cloak he had worn over his robes from Amaranthine to Redcliffe last winter. His gloves would keep his hands warm, the fur scarf from Warden Lavellan was folded around his neck and cushioned the cloak's clasp. He remained cold without his Formari robes, but was no longer entitled to wear them.

Dirthamen was sullen in his crate and reportedly had not eaten since Jylan's altercation with the Former Kennelmaster. The hound was misery and despair, and did not move save to look up a little, head down, when the door was opened. The handler was deeply sympathetic and clearly distraught by the hound's disposition. Samar gave Jylan a rude look for having mistreated Dirthamen.

Jylan did not see how kneeling beside the animal and rubbing its head would resolve the matter. Kneeling as such was uncomfortable and the crate was very large, so he sat down instead.

Samar closed the cage door.

"Why did you do that?"

"Talk to your dog."

"Samar, I cannot reach the latch from within the cage."

"Talk to your fucking dog."

"It was not necessary to close me in here."

"I don't see you hugging your dog and I'm not letting you out until you do."

"Samar."

He could extend both legs fully and sit up straight with his back to the crate wall. He could not stand, but was not unduly cramped.

He rubbed the dog's head until Dirth heaved up and dropped over his lap, one paw thrown over his legs. He rubbed the animal's shoulder and neck, and when the sensation in his fingers became numbed from the coarse fur he scratched instead. Dirth adjusted again, and Jylan was able to check the dog's paws for the offensive nail that had caused such unnecessary distress two days ago. It was fine. There was nothing wrong.

The hound sat up and came closer to him, bumping its head into his shoulder. More attention. He scratched the hound's neck and chest, and eventually Dirth bowed his head and thumped it to Jylan's chest, cuddling onto him as yet another person intent on embracing him in some way today.

"I am hugging the dog: you may now let me out."

"No, not yet."

"You are being unreasonable."

When Dirth was convinced to sniff, and then enthusiastically eat, a bowl of dried meat with a few fresh strips of ram heart, Samar finally unhooked the latch on the cage and permitted both of them to get out. The dog stared up and wagged its tail at Jylan, and offered Samar a friendly sniff and headbutt, but remained somewhat reserved. While Jylan had been inside the crate, his brother had assembled a small kit of necessary items for the animal's keep.

The last place to go, after the cart was loaded with one light and one heavy trunk, was to Mistress-

"Master Ansera," -Correlay? And Mistress Stockard. And Natalie Stockard. And-

They were outside midwife Valora's hutch, with the midwife herself, and each of them was waiting patiently for Samar and Jylan to approach.

"You've given me absolutely no time, for shame." Seamstress Correlay was brisk with him, and foisted a bolt of woven fabric into his arms. An entire bolt. The weight was significant, and the gesture itself was mystifying. It was undyed wool, finely made, with many hours of hard work put into every yard of it. He did no know why he was holding it. "It would have been a proper set of clothes for you but no, I could not even speak with you first. Therefore this will have to suffice."

"I do not understand-"

"Have you no sisters in Gwaren?" She clicked her tongue at him bitterly. "Not one among you who can sew?"

" _Sarah,_ " Mistress Stockard warned in a quiet voice.

"I am able to sew, Seamstress Correlay."

"So can our sisters, yeah," Samar was mystified as well and helped him by taking the burden of the bolt off Jylan's arms. "Is this, uh, for us?"

"No, I just make a habit of throwing heavy things at elves."

"Sarah!" Mistress Stockard repeated, more firmly and Valora was biting the inside of her mouth. A pinched look crossed Seamstress Correlay's face, and she looked at Jylan bitterly.

"Travel safely, and put that fabric to good use. If you know _so much_ about dyes then you'll need to make sure your family is dressed properly for winter."

"Sarah _enough_." Mistress Stockard came forward and offered him yet another embrace, smiling at him very sadly despite there being no reasonable need to assume his leave-taking should upset her. "My brother already spoke to you? I should hope so. Natalie?"

Warden Howe's niece came forward with a basket covered with soft linen and held it up proudly to her mother, who then presented it to Jylan. Inside was a loaf of bread, four honey cakes wrapped in paper, and six jars of preserved jams and salted meat. There was a small fabric doll stitched together with many different kinds and colours of fabric, and when Jylan noticed it he saw Miss Natalie puff up very proudly with a smile.

"Thank you, Miss Stockard," he said to the girl. "Thank you, Mistress Stockard. And thank you, Seamstress Correlay." The human women nodded to him.

Mistress Valora was very upset to see him leaving. Her thin mouth was pulled into a tight frown, her large eyes overwhelmed with quiet pain. He did not know how to comfort her and was of a mind to depart quickly so as to expedite the process of easing her loss. Her parcel was a wooden box, thin and cheap, with several familiar bottles resting inside which she walked him gently through.

"Snowdrop oil, for birthing pains." She explained to him in a brittle voice. "Let the woman drink one teaspoon and no more for every six hours of labour, any more and she may lose her heartbeat. Use the verdant branches either to make one of your tonics, or for a toothing babe to mouth on and ease pain. Arbour Blessing balm for rashes, and honey wax for keeping skin smooth and healthy in winter. The rest you've made so many times you could put them together in your sleep, _dahlen._ "

She closed the box and drew in a ragged breath, eyes red and tears beading in her eyes. She murmured that the two fat pheasants had been caught and smoked by Vessa, and handed them to him by the tight cords woven around their petrified feet, the feathers, heads, and offal long gone.

" _Please_ write when you're safely with your family, _dahlen_. You'll worry me too much if you don't."

"I will make a concerted effort to do so."

"I'll send my prayers whichever way will carry you safely. Please, _please_ , be safe."

Here, Jylan knew the appropriate thing to say.

" _Ma serranas, Hamae_."

They put the fabric, and the basket, and the two trunks up on the cart. They rode alongside several overburdened crates of raw wool bound for the weaving houses of Amaranthine City, with an old human driver who didn't care much for elves but didn't have enough wool to shove them off the cart. They had too much food for a day or a night, but Samar said they would likely be in Amaranthine for a week before the _Lady Freeborn_ would leave, and the food would keep them well fed without spending any money.

They left Vigil's Keep at noon on the thirtieth day of Kingsway.

"A pleasantly fine day to begin a journey, no?"

And behind them, quite deliberately, was a lone horse and cheerful elven rider.

"Master… Arainai?"


	25. Master Arainai

**_Echoes of Arlathan_**

Master Arainai

Master Arainai was following them. It was both obvious and deliberate, but the only possible explanations for this behaviour were excessively negative and disheartening.

It was deliberate because a fine horse like the one he was astride could easily have outpaced the ox-cart carrying Jylan, Samar, and Dirthamen, provided the rider had simply upped the animal's pace to a modest canter. Instead, it was plodding along at a walk, right beside the cart.

It was obvious because from his perch behind Samar, Master Arainai continuously made attempts to converse with them.

"Are we blocking the road?" Samar questioned him, twisting around on the crate of wool he was sitting on to see the other elf, who was grinning.

"Not at all! It is a fine stretch of highway as you can see, plenty enough for two such carts to pass with ease."

"Then you could just, y'know, go around us."

"I think I will not."

Master Arainai was dressed very warmly and joked with them that he had never quite gotten used to the cold of Ferelden. He wore fine black leather boots with tufts of grey wolf fur feathered from the top under his knees. The grey of his trousers was visible only along his thighs before a curtain of sparkling silverite links fell past the edge of his black tunic, which was cut in several places with bands of grey wool and glossy black leather. There were metal plates layered under the embossed leather finish of his vambraces, a detail Jylan was only aware of because he had seen the foreign elf wearing them during the war and had observed him cleaning them. It was very likely he wore a gorget of some kind under his clothing, the fur enclosed around his throat and fluttering to his chin hiding any sign of it. His cloak was heavy and full, the pelt of some great beast making up the inside of it. His horse was creamy white, and his blond hair was swept back in a braid and knotted behind his head, showing off the three smooth lines tattooed down the side of his smiling face.

Jylan considered it reasonable to assume that the assassin was following them either to relieve them of the Cherrywood lock-box in Jylan's sore arms, or to kill them. He did not know what the ultimate purpose behind either act would be except to offer unnecessary terror on the road, but he was faced with limited alternatives. Master Arainai was Warden Commander Surana's right hand and shadow: for him to leave Vigil's Keep without the Archmage meant he was being sent on some manner of business, and that he tarried beside the ox cart indicated that they were involved with said business.

Jylan did not voice his concerns to Samar because Arainai was close enough to overhear him should he do so, and that would expedite the process of either theft or execution.

"Why are you following us?" Samar demanded, likely a response to fear.

"I'm not following you!" Arainai chirped from his slow, plodding horse. "I'm riding to Amaranthine."

"At _the slowest_ possible pace. You may as well have walked."

"So could you, wouldn't it be a shame if-"

"If you whittled away part of the axel to make this thing break I'm gonna tackle you off that horse."

" _Drat_ , I knew I forgot to do _something_ this morning." Samar looked away from the other elf with a disgusted look, and then slid down off his crate, arms folded, fingers teasing the hilt of one of his knives.

' _He's gonna kill us_ ,' his brother mouthed, hidden by the crate between him and Arainai. Jylan was inclined to agree.

Dirthamen insisted on laying on his back between them and fussing until either Jylan or Samar consented to rub his belly. The hound was not concerned with the looming presence of death.

They arrived in Amaranthine City nearly three hours after leaving the keep. Jylan had walked for a portion of it, as had Dirthamen and Samar, because the cart had not moved much faster than a brisk pace. Because of this brief exercise, none of them were sore from the hours sitting on the jostling, rumbling cart. The driver muttered harshly for them to remain in the back because he knew where Garevel had made their arrangements for the night, and he drove them considerably far into the city until the cart could go no further, and he barked at them with rough directions to find the inn themselves: only two buildings down.

Master Arainai had vanished once they were through the city gates. This offered little comfort to Samar, who was susceptible to paranoia and fear, and did not resolve the matter for Jylan. He remembered the fact that Master Arainai had thrice broken into the impenetrable Redcliffe Castle to assassinate the Crow cell responsible for Amaranthine's war in the hinterlands. A crowded city would be of no consequence to him after the deathly silence of the castle. Again, Jylan did not share this information with his brother.

The innkeeper was a dwarven woman who took a letter from Garevel and held his seal to the light, ensuring it could not be a fake by the glimmer of gold and powdered lapis lazuli in the wax. She sent two men to bring in the trunks and bolt of cloth which Samar had stood beside while waiting outside, and then gave them a room. As the letter included both room _and_ board, they were not required to pay for anything except alcohol, and it was not necessary to eat from the gifts of food.

"Save that stuff for the ship." His brother cautioned when Jylan suggested eating the loaf of bread before it could turn stale. "Trust me, it's only a few days to Gwaren but even a bite of something _not_ pickled will be welcome. Stale bread is still _bread_." That was not reassuring.

The beer had a more bitter flavour here than at the Vigil and Jylan found it preferable to Quartermaster Felsi's brew. Samar went an unpleasant colour at the notion of more wine after last night, and opted for the same beer and a portion of water to go with their meal of fish and egg pie. It was a copper for both of them to drink.

"You _really_ ," Master Arainai set his plate and pint down at their table and Samar swore very loudly for having been snuck up on from behind like that. "Should not haul that box about with you at all times." Jylan had not been watching for him and froze with an intense discomfort in the back of his throat where part of his pie crust was now lodged. Death by choking had not been his expectation. "It tells people that it is too valuable for you to leave unguarded, and to take note of it."

"What-" Samar dropped his voice, his head, and his shoulders nearly to the table, "- _the fuck are you doing here?"_

Master Arainai frowned very expressively at him.

"You had a third chair, I thought you were waiting for me." A brief mania enraptured Jylan's brother, causing his hands to flail at nothing over the meals between them.

" _Who the fuck are you-!?"_ His brother hissed, and Jylan finally permitted himself to cough very hard and open his lungs again. Master Arainai held a hand to his own chest, aghast at Samar.

"I am _wounded_ , ser. Is our card game so swiftly forgotten?"

" _No_ ," Samar breathed back, "I mean who are you to come and follow us around the city like this? What the fuck does Surana want? My brother's taken everything he's entitled to and not a copper more, so the Arl can take it up with his seneschal if he doesn't like something!"

"Rest assured, if anyone thought you or your brother were stealing anything from Amaranthine it would be Captain Renth sitting here, not I."

" _That doesn't help_. _"_

"I suppose not, she is quite dashing with or without her armour and boasts a modest, friendly temper. Now, if you will excuse me, this is one of the few reasonably decent fish meals in the country and I should like to enjoy it hot." Jylan looked at his brother and Samar was staring back at him, both hands gesturing to the third, now happily eating, elf at their table.

Jylan did not know what would be a reasonable comment to make at this point, and opted to lift his beer and drink from that instead. Samar followed his lead and did the same, drinking considerably faster.

"Did I forget to mention the three drops of _Aria Vandal_ I poured into those pints?" Master Arainai's muffled voice spoke from over a steaming forkful of his pie. "Sleep well, gentle lords."

Samar's dark face went pale and then very flush, and a mouthful of beer was splashed into his food.

"Aria Vandal is not poisonous," Jylan stated promptly, having stopped drinking as well with his pint still at his mouth when recalling the name. "The oil reduces inflammation in the-"

" _You asshole,_ " Samar growled in a black and threatening voice at Arainai, whose mouth was puckered in delight around his food. "Go somewhere else! Anywhere else!"

"You are much too tense, my friend."

" _Fuck you_."

"Is that a suggestion?" Samar choked and moved to stand.

"I implore you not to resort to violence." Jylan made it to his feet first, the Cherrywood box which had been in his lap now between both hands, and extended out to Master Arainai. It held the lyrium, the money from the Wardens, from Garevel, from Connor, the amber stone from Warden Lavellan, as well as the letters of recommendation and the writ of passage intended to carry Jylan from Amaranthine to Gwaren. There was still seven months of pay incoming to Gwaren, unless those transfers were cancelled by the Arl or other agents of his will, but even so there was food and a box of potions and the bolt of fabric, plus all of the supplies from the workshop.

"If you will leave my brother and I in peace then I will not deny you the only prize worth taking from us." He told the assassin, because it was not unreasonable that Arainai would be persuaded to take the wealth and depart without further issue. "It is not necessary to bait him into unwise action as I have been similarly manipulated over time." It was not fair- "-need not have the satisfaction."

The sight of the box alone caused a change in Arainai's face which stripped the amusement from his eyes. Jylan did not hear the mistake in his words until the blond elf gave a small startle and looked at him with a fresh sense of wonder.

"That was quite the slip," Arainai commented. Jylan did not understand.

" _Who?_ " Samar asked, echoing the confusion.

"Archmage Surana," Jylan repeated, still holding the lock-box in both hands. Surana need not have the satisfaction of knowing Jylan's brother had for died pulling a knife on Arainai.

"That's not what you said," Arainai insisted, looking at Samar. "Is that what he said?"

"That's not what he said."

"What did I say?" Perhaps he had said Arl, not Archmage.

"Irving?" Samar said for him, with a confused look at Arainai, who met it with dark fingers touching his lips thoughtfully. "He said Irving?"

"First _Enchanter_ Irving, no doubt." Arainai agreed. Jylan was still standing and holding the box out when Arainai waved a hand at him to sit. Slowly, he did so. "It is rare to hear one of the Tranquil mis-speak, and a flub of that magnitude is concerning. I- I apologize, to you both. Perhaps you will permit me to explain myself?"

"That's what I've been asking you to do _all day_ ," Samar complained, and Arainai patted the air to calm him.

"I know, yes, and I've been very coy about not answering you." He lifted his hand a little higher and flagged the attention of the innkeeper. The room's constant chatter and activity had muffled nearly all of their conversation, and she had to come quite close to hear what Master Arainai wanted. "More drinks for the table, madame, and the first round my companions ordered: shift it all to my tab. One purse is easier to count than three."

The order was taken and delivered, and Master Arainai changed his tone enough to keep Samar muzzled by his drink. Dirthamen, who had curled up at Jylan's feet for the duration of the meal after devouring a bowl of kitchen offal, now sat up with a yawn and placed his muzzle in Jylan's lap, huffing with sleepy eyes for pets and strokes between his ears. The hound remained entirely neutral to Arainai's presence.

"Very simply, I have business in Gwaren," the Assassin told them. The intensity of Samar's glare faded. "Business which may see me leave the city within a few days of arrival, more likely a few weeks, but ultimately no further than the dying days of winter: I have a very crucial rendezvous on the first day of Spring deep in the Kocari Wilds, and I will not miss it."

"What, being a rabbit's not good enough? You wanna go getting yourself turned into a toad next?" Arainai wrinkled his nose disdainfully at Samar's words. "No one goes into the wilds and comes back."

" _Language_ , Master Ashera, _please:_ there are humans about." Arainai scolded him gently and then brought his voice back to the light, conversational lilt from before. "And _Wardens_ come back from all sorts of ridiculous places. I may not be one of them, but I know more or less how it's done. Does this satisfy you? I am not here to rob or do unsightly things to you; I mean neither of you any harm whatsoever. But I _do_ know some of what you are taking with you and as we are travelling in the same direction and aboard the same ship, it would be good to make sure you arrive at home unscathed and unmolested. Additionally, while I know you, Compounder, often dealt with significant sums of coin on behalf of your guild and Vigil's Keep, I do not think I would be remiss in assuming you have never had quite so much of it _yourself_ to risk losing or misusing?"

"Your assumptions are accurate."

"Then from one who is used to it to one who is not, let me say I think we will find plenty of important topics to discuss on the voyage south." Samar grew dark and grumbling again at this.

"It's his money to spend, not yours."

"If I have my numbers right, Master Ashera, he has more money than most people know what to do with, but not nearly enough to last the rest of this year if spent frivolously." Samar threw both hands out at Jylan.

" _What_ about him is frivolous?" Arainai patted the air again and Jylan assumed that this habit would only breed contempt from his brother in short order if continued.

"What is the _largest_ sum of coin you have ever held in your hand _and_ known was yours, Samar?"

"We're not on a first-name basis."

"Answer the question, maybe?"

Samar took a long, hard breath and held it deep, then exhaled and stabbed at the rest of his dinner with his fork. He shovelled a few bites into his mouth and chewed on it for more time, and eventually swallowed so he could speak.

"Two sovereigns," was his answer, but more followed. "It was my cut after the _worst_ contract of my life. We ran a shipment of Nevarran silks and Fereldan timber from Wycome to Seheron. _Seheron_ , of all fucking places. Captain _and_ First Mate died in separate attacks on our ship from slavers, actual _slavers._ We were stopped by a Qunari Dreadnaught that nearly blew us to smithereens before it saw us firing back on a Tevinter vessel that had been following us for two days before then. I got back to Gwaren with two gold pieces and ten years off my life. Never again." Master Arainai was nodding with steady interest as Samar told his story, and then posed a question as Samar resumed wolfing down his meal:

"And how long did those two gold pieces last?"

"The first one? Maybe three months." That was not encouraging. "But the second I used to get Rian the teacher and time to learn his letters and numbers. He got a decent job from that, and got Jenna her job in turn, so that's two members of my family taken care of by one piece of gold. I can't complain, but: _never again._ "

"If used wisely, serrah, your brother's money will make a substantial difference for your family for years to come. If spirited away on luxuries and gifts and _simple niceties_ , it will be all used up by this time next year and every one of you will be back where they started. I do not claim to know your family or your circumstances, but I do know that people who have never had anything can lose themselves in the brief revelry of feeling that they can have _everything_."

It seemed an appropriate time to speak.

"I am open to suggestions and advice, Master Arainai."

"Excellent! But not tonight." Arainai chirped, finishing the last mouthfuls of his beer and then scooping the final lumps of his meal up into his mouth. "You two are tired, and have been through a great deal. I will accompany you to your ship's mooring place in the morning, yes? And Compounder: _leave that box in your room_. It will be safe, but you absolutely must stop clutching it like it will come to life and squirm away from you."

"I am not clutching it," he stated, a simple matter as the box was in his lap, at the edge of Dirthamen's snout. Jylan had one hand placed on the lid, but was not holding the box to his body.

"Put it on the table or put it on the floor," Arainai insisted. "It must come out of your lap: the hound is growing jealous. If anyone should come near it, they will be dead before your brother or I establish who threw the first blade."

"I implore you not to resort to violence," Jylan repeated himself from earlier. Master Arainai smiled in an untrustworthy manner. Samar grumbled, and drank the last of Jylan's beer.

Their beds for the night were modest. Very similar to the bed Jylan had been given in Vigil's Keep. The major difference was the significant dip in the crushed hay and wool from many bodies over many years, and this was partially responsible for his poor night's rest. The other reason was Dirthamen. The hound had eyed the beds with noteworthy attention while Jylan and his brother prepared to retire for the night, drawing attention but no comment from them. After the candle was doused and Jylan had acquired a semi-comfortable position in the bed, he was abruptly accosted by the hound's willful attention.

He would have inquired what Dirthamen was doing but was not so confused as to forget that the dog was a dog, and therefore incapable of speech. Instead he waited in the dark until the great mass of hard muscle and bristly fur settled itself behind his legs, head flung down on the dip of his waist where he was laying on his side. The hound promptly fell asleep, but Jylan did not. He was not comfortable, and in fact made note of tension points along his back and shoulders where he was experiencing outright discomfort. When he eventually rolled onto his back to ease the arrangement, Dirthamen huffed at him, and promptly flopped over his legs and stomach.

It would have been more appropriate to have left the hound in Vigil's Keep, with Rowan.

He slept poorly, and woke up in the black silence of pre-dawn. It took several moments before he remembered why he was sore, why his back was twisted in a bed that did not feel right, and why he could not remember his requisitions for the day. He had been relieved of his duties and his living and the adjustment would take time.

He remained in bed until the sky began to lighten. Twenty-one push-ups, thirty sit-ups. He dressed himself in the same trousers and boots and tunic and cloak as yesterday, and did not pick up the Cherrywood box where it had spent the night under his bed. He did not wake his brother. He woke the dog and took Dirthamen out to the street so the animal could relieve himself and sniff the city with open curiosity. Dirthamen had been kennelled in Denerim before being taken to Vigil's Keep, but the royal district where House Guerrin had rested was incomparable with the dock district of Amaranthine. The hound was unwilling to return to the inn, but obeyed his commands.

That morning the innkeeper fed them hot gruel and hot black tea. Samar insisted that the copper fee for honey or jam accompaniment for the food was too expensive, and Jylan only suggested the jars of preserves from Mistress Stockard to remind his brother of their existence. His brother misconstrued this as Jylan having a noteworthy preference in the matter, and gently asked him not to indulge so quickly.

"I _know_ it's gonna be rough going from how your Guild and the Vigil could feed you to what's in the Alienage, and it's not all _that bad_ either, but just- y'know, pace yourself."

"I did not mean it as a suggestion of need, merely a reminder. We did not have jam in the guild, at least not during my term of residence."

"Well, good. I guess. Speaking of your guild, is there anyone you wanna go and make final goodbyes to before we leave Amaranthine?"

"No."

Master Arainai did not reappear at breakfast, and they left for the waterfront without him. Amaranthine City was on the border between the Waking Sea and the Amaranthine Ocean. As Jylan had only ever seen the water in the form of maps, he did not know where the absolute distinction between sea and ocean was formally cast, or on which side of the line the city rested.

But he did know that there was an immediate and intimate sense of familiarity with the briny smell of the water when they walked down through the city's steep decline to the harbour. The Guildsmen's hall was within this district, but they went straight past it to the green waters and barnacle-crusted posts and breakers of the seaside. Amaranthine had recovered from the hurricane in nearly all faculties: there were signs of repair on warehouses and the waterfront docks, not devastation or damage. Jylan did not know the city well enough to gauge changes elsewhere.

"So you… you lived in this city for years and almost never went out in it?"

"Leaving the hall was not required for many weeks at a time. Provisions were delivered, and several of those who left for errands or deliveries vanished for unknown but likely unpleasant reasons. I do not know if the guild remains as strict in its policies of free travel."

Samar was displeased but would not elaborate on why. He cheered up considerably when he led Jylan down through the forest of masts and furled sails and reached a particular vessel of great interest.

The ship was moored alongside many others of similar grand size. Instead of a plank of wood for a gangway, there was a stepladder fastened to the ship with ropes. The hull was cut in various places at Jylan's eye-level on the dock: little squares like shuttered windows, one of which was open and revealed the polished cross-piece of a large and menacing harpoon. He could not see up onto the deck, but there was little talk and less movement, the ship seemed quiet in the early morning light.

"The _Lady Freeborn_ ," his brother sighed in admiration, then cupped his mouth and sent up a loud, musical chant of several words Jylan failed to understand or properly interpret. It was likely not King's Trade. The cry caused the active echo of pounding feet, and four sailors flung themselves over the ship's rail, laughing and talking over one another with whistles and taunts.

Jylan could not follow the chatter. Three of the sailors were elven, one was human. The human was one of two women, her hair sun-bleached and chopped short, cheeks blushed harshly red by the Fereldan cold. She seemed very young. The elves were darker, and shoved each other with jostling hands.

Samar said something very loudly, but was smiling, and his voice thundered with introduction and excitement, one hand clapping Jylan on the shoulder. He had pulled the hood of his cloak up over his face and could not look at Samar properly to ask what was happening. The sailors on the ship cooed and made interested sounds, repeating themselves to each other.

"Which language are you using?" It was an irrelevant question as regardless of the answer, he could not speak nor understand it.

"Rivaini," Samar elbowed him in the arm. It did not hurt. It was meant as a sign of affection. "Makes sense that the Circle took that away from you too." Jylan did not comment on this.

Samar spoke again and made a large gesture with his arm to scatter the sailors, who went off chirping and humming over the deck. Samar mounted the steps of the ladder, and looked back with a swing of his hand to tell Jylan to follow.

Jylan was skeptical of Dirthamen's ability to climb the steps, but after reaching the deck himself, the hound made only one rough attempt before simply running and leaping the distance. The dog's athletics delighted the sailors.

" _Ashera!_ " The Captain was a human man with a marcher accent, black hair in waves and curls, a large, clean shaven jaw, and many scars on his hands. He wore a heavy black Captain's coat and greeted Samar in a way which suggested anger or frustration, but Samar continued in his good mood and brought Jylan closer to him. The Captain, at least, spoke Trade.

"Back already, are you? Afraid we'd sail off and leave you with the _Hero of Ferelden_?"

"Sailor's place is with his crew, Ser."

"Don't give me that glibness, who's the hooded mongrel?" This was a reference to Jylan. He focused his eyes on the brass buttons of that black coat.

"My brother, Ser."

" _Bullshit_." The Captain answered and then spat. The sailors who had greeted Samar from the rail laughed and were watching: some openly, others less so. "I bought it the first time, a brother in the Arl's service. You look fed and fine enough, but drop the tall-tales before you fall from one."

Samar was very quiet and Jylan realized he was being looked at, gestured to, and shifted his focus to his brother before he felt tension on the back of his hood. Samar did not pull it down but was clearly requesting its removal. Uncertain what this would accomplish, Jylan did as requested.

He returned his gaze to the Captain's chest so as not to offer offense to his brother's employer. Samar put his hands around Jylan's shoulders and leaned next to him until their heads touched, looking at his Captain, and it seemed reasonable to assume that Samar was smiling broadly.

The man was quiet but one sailor gasped and another slapped his leg and started laughing. Something more was said in Rivaini before the Captain suddenly burst out in a much louder laugh than the crew around him on the deck.

"Well to _damnnation_ with what I think I know of elves!" The captain yelled, and his crew laughed too. There were now more of them crawling down the rigging where they had been quietly working, coming up from the lower decks to observe what was happening. "How bored did the Maker have to be to put the same face on two men? Fine, a brother in Amaranthine, _now_ I believe you. Now what's he doing on my ship?"

Samar winced, ended his sideways embrace of Jylan, and became sheepish, palms together.

"Passage to Gwaren?"

The Captain spat at the deck.

"Gold, or get him off my ship. Have we not lost enough money on this cursed contract!"

"I thought you might say that, Ser." Samar ceased to be timid, and spoke more firmly. "Shall we go to your quarters? My brother didn't come unprepared or empty-handed."

The Captain of this ship seemed an angry and uncompromising person, who was in fact neither very angry nor that unwilling to reason. He took them across the deck and down through a set of doors, which led immediately to a room with windows looking out the back of the ship, a small cot built into the back wall, a table bolted to the floor with maps and an open bottle of wine, and-

"At last! My companions arrive well-rested and in good spirits." –and Master Arainai, reclining comfortably in one of the two benches bolted to the floor just like the table he was seated at. "Finally, good Captain Hevelt and I can speak of business, not just possibility."

Samar bristled at his presence. Jylan did not comment or inquire as to why: Arainai had told them last night he intended to reach Gwaren aboard the same ship.

"I expect this kind of swill from plenty of people, Ashera, but not _you_." Captain Hevelt grumbled at Samar, but then turned and held out a hand taking them to take the seats across from where Arainai was now sitting up properly, hands folded in front of him and head turned up with glowing attention. "Do I start with how your brother's paying for this passage to Gwaren, or with asking you why in Andraste's Name I've had a Crow in my quarters all morning?"

"I'm not a Crow, Ser, and I am here because you invited me in!" Arainai protested, "Most politely, and with good wine to share- although not as good as what the younger Master Ashera has in that satchel of his."

Captain Hevelt kept his gaze on Samar.

"What's going on?"

"I don't know why there's a not-Crow in your cabin, Captain," Samar answered quickly. "He told us he needs to get to Gwaren on business for the Arl of Amaranthine, but you told me two days ago we won't be ready to sail until next week, so I don't know. For my end, my brother was dismissed from Vigil's Keep for getting caught up in their politics and I need to take him home with me. He has a writ of passage from the Seneschal to get him there."

"Writ's just gold in paper form," Hevelt uttered. "I'll accept it if the seal is good."

"Jeevan?" He opened the satchel at his side and reached inside, withdrawing the fine card with the writ and Garevel's stamp on it. The Captain took the card and examined it by the light of his windows, then returned it to him. Jylan kept his eyes on the man's chest, straying no higher than his shoulder.

"When we're ready to leave: I'll take it then, not before. As my Boatswain says, it'll be at least four more days before we're finished minor repairs and loading what scanty cargo we can get a-hold of for shipping south. Blasted hurricane ruined nearly everything."

"There is also a bottle of wine with the Seneschal's kind regards, Captain," Samar added.

"I'll take both." Jylan withdrew the wine from the satchel, and gave it to him. There was an extended pause in the conversation. "Is there… something wrong with him? I thought it just nerves, but..." Jylan did not understand the reference. It was Samar who attempted to answer.

"He's, um…" His brother replaced the hand on his shoulder, rubbing along the seam of the cloak. "He's tranquil, Captain. Probably gonna be the quietest passenger we've ever carried, but a little odd, I'll grant you. You get used to it."

The Captain's boots creaked and he hummed softly to himself. The loudest sound in the room was Dirthamen's idle panting when the hound moved around under the table, where he had comfortably placed himself after sensing no danger in the room.

"Fine," the Captain shifted away from him, focusing on Master Arainai. "Now where does that leave you and the Arl's business? At least two other ships will leave before ours."

"That is very true," Master Arainai purred from his seat. "But you are going where I would like to go, with the people I would like to go with. _Calm yourself_ , Master Ashera, you remain misinformed: my business has nothing to do with the Arl and I simply prefer to travel in familiar company. A few days idling in the city is all well and good to me, I have a long time to be where I would like to go. What is of interest to yourself, Captain, is a request I have of your ship's services."

"What kind of request?" The Captain asked.

"A brief, but important, delay of our passage in the Fereldan Capital. And I do mean _brief_ : only a night at most, and should we arrive early enough in the day then I may be able to wrap everything up before nightfall." That did not make sense but Hevelt was in a more appropriate position to say as much.

"It's four days waiting for the _Lady Freeborn_ just to leave Amaranthine," he said, "You could get to Denerim on a good horse in that time, or less if you've the mettle to move faster."

"True, but it would be quite the feat for my horse and I to leap the distance from the Denerim docks to the _Lady Freeborn_ 's deck if she is at sea, no? My dear, respectable Captain, I am not a fool who asks for something without knowing the value of it."

"Do you have _any_ idea how much a detour like that will cost me when I've no goods for Denerim and enough losses from that damned storm?" Hevelt snarled at the other elf, and Jylan looked to his brother where Samar was staring incredulously at the Antivan. "If my crew expect their pay, then it'll be coming from your pocket before I even _think_ of something like that!"

Arainai showed him a hand. He was leaning on the table with one elbow, his face held on his curled fist.

"My dear Captain, I _do_ know." Arainai flicked his wrist hard. It looked like magic, but it was likely a sewn compartment in his vambrace or sleeve. A white card appeared between his nimble fingers, and was held out for the captain who snatched it up. The card was brushed with gold.

"This…"

"My business is not the Arl's." Arainai repeated, his voice firm, but solemn. "I am not well known in Ferelden and that has been my own doing and preference, truly, but I am well known to _him_. I was there when Urthemiel breathed its last polluting breath over the country and I helped drag the Hero of Ferelden's limp body from the smouldering aftermath. I was even the one to slap him and make sure he remembered how to breathe before the Blight could claim him as one last victim. I made a request of him, heart-to-heart, Captain, and this is his answer. Show it to any Dwarven Guild house, show it to the Seneschal of Gwaren, to any of the Arls, His Majesty's court, or simply to your own company's clerks and associates, and your worries will vanish. All I am asking for is one day in Denerim, and a pledge to see the younger Master Ashera and myself whole and well when we disembark in Gwaren."

"Done." Hevelt stated. "The repairs, the cargo, even the docking fee in Denerim: this could cover all of it. I'll not question the Arl of Amaranthine or the Hero of Ferelden. My cabin is yours if you desire it for the voyage, Master Arainai."

The assassin only gave a gentle, friendly laugh, and declined.

The next four days passed very slowly. Samar was required to tend to the ship and the crew, he had a position of substantial responsibility overseeing cargo, the deck, the lines, the final repairs, and the state and sea-worthiness of the vessel. Jylan knew nothing of sea-faring or ship building, his presence would only have proven burdensome and uncomfortable. He endeavoured to remain at the inn. He did not feel boredom, he only knew that it was preferable to keep his hands busy rather than simply stare for hour after hour at the walls of the small room.

Master Arainai drifted between periods of close attention and vanishing into the city for whatever purpose he desired. Jylan felt no compulsion to ask or wonder where he went. He only knew that the assassin made a point of returning every few hours to check on him. He did not know why.

On the second day, he appeared at breakfast after Samar had left for the docks, and made a strange statement.

"I would see what you know of self-defense."

He knew nothing. He was tranquil. Tranquil were not permitted to resist the actions of others.

"Petty Circle nonsense, and you are not in the Circle any longer." Master Arainai dismissed his statement. "The Arl is a mage and I taught him how to fight properly, perhaps without my finesse or captivating good looks, but proper, and usually unexpected."

"The Arl is a battlemage, it is expected that he should know how to mediate encounters with various weapon and attack styles."

"And you are not a battlemage, but you're a grown man going to live in a new city with unfamiliar people, and you need to know what to do should that city turn on you."

"If it will provide you with a sense of emotional fulfillment or utility, then I will consent to your suggestion. However, I understand that this offer is likely motivated solely by your own boredom."

"Not _solely_ ," Arainai laughed, "but a little bit of boredom, yes. Come with me."

He did not know how to fight.

He did not know how to lunge, grapple, block, or swipe. He did not know the different grips for a short dagger, or what they were intended to provide the wielder. He did not know how to read the fine details of the weapon, or how to anticipate the movements of an aggressive foe.

If he was not obligated to remain in such volatile circumstances, then his primary focus was to escape the encounter. Master Arainai noticed this and then asked him directly if it was so. Once confirmed, the staggered movements and odd flecks of violence changed into a simple, controlled exercise: evade.

"Your stride is too short." Arainai corrected him in the yard just beside the inn's cramped stable. "You're not wearing those hobbling robes, Compounder, you've got to spread your feet a little. Don't take three steps where one will suffice, move _away_."

The other elf stood next to him, facing the same way as him, and slid one foot back, bidding Jylan copy him.

"Do exactly as I do." Back, back, left strife, back, right, back: consistently back. When they ran out of space, Arainai reset them and made him cross the yard again in a different pattern. After the seventh run, it abruptly became easier and less likely for Jylan to trip.

"See! _Big_ steps, feet off the ground." The other elf praised. "The ground is never even and no one cares how quiet you are when you're in a fight like this: lift your foot and push back, land and push, _land_ and-" push, and continue. Arainai said it was like a dance. Jylan did not know how to dance either.

"Promise me that if you are ever in a fight you will take that hood off."

"The faces of the Tranquil are often considered unnerving to-"

" _Good!_ Should anyone accost you, Compounder, you should do whatever you can to scare the _shit_ out of them." Removing the hood also allowed him greater field of vision and an easier time watching where he was going when backing up.

A key component of combat, he was told the next day with sore legs, was aggression. Tranquil did not feel aggression, therefore it seemed a fruitless act of insanity to insist upon his instruction in the basics of engaged combat.

"Tranquil aren't aggressive, no," Arainai conceded after only twenty minutes of talk and awkward attempts to make Jylan follow his movements. He was not too fast, merely investing in something Jylan could not do. "But you know what you are? Stubborn. Absolutely, unapologetically stubborn. You don't have to get _angry_ to stab someone, or to avoid being stabbed, you just have to be absolutely committed to either of those thoughts. Either I _am_ going to stab this person who is trying to harm me, or I will _not_ be stabbed by this person. Let us focus on the latter. Here are your vambraces from Velanna, let me show you how to lace them properly. Over your shirt sleeve… excellent."

There were basic positions, rest and start poses for arms and legs. Most felt forced, others were more natural. Jylan was tall, but he was elven, Master Arainai did not want him to accept forceful hits to his limbs because the bones could break or the blows unbalance him.

"I'm not going to show you how to stand there and take a beating, you need to _move back_ and use your arms to make sure I miss every time. If your body is no longer where I am throwing a punch, I cannot hit you. If my blade is longer than your stride, then you need to make sure you can get the tip to go the wrong way and _always keep moving_. When you sense a chance to run, you _run_."

It was not easy. It was not enjoyable. The sensation of his heightened heartbeat and the sweat collecting under his clothes showed hard work, but it was fruitless as he could not fight. He did not know how to fight.

Dirthamen knew how to fight.

"Do you know his commands?" He knew how to command the dog to perform many tasks. This was not what Master Arainai meant. "I mean, his battle commands. Compounder, this is a _war hound_ , what did you think the Kennelmaster did with him every day?" He had not considered it pertinent to ask.

"Hound!" Arainai called abruptly, the cold sunlight carrying his voice to where Dirthamen, sleeping head down on his paws, sent both ears shock-straight and snapped his eyes open. The dog's entire body moved in one instant, and he was standing wide awake and alert. Jylan had not seen the animal rouse itself so quickly before. "Hound _come!_ "

Dirthamen bolted from standing to sprinting, and kicked up loose mud and gravel in an effort to stop dead in front of- Jylan. Master Arainai laughed warmly at the display.

"He's bonded to you," the assassin explained. "His commands will always make him act in your favour unless you explicitly say otherwise. He's a Mabari: one of the few animals that will learn other peoples' names along with his own." Jylan considered this information.

"He knows that Samar is Samar, by name?"

"And that I am Zevran, or Arainai, whichever he has heard you refer me to as most often. And he _will_ know Captain Hevelt or whomever you interact with most on board the ship. Have you never seen the Wardens introduce their Mabari to people? They don't remember _everyone_ , but they learn the ones they're familiar with."

Jylan had no immediate reason to doubt Arainai's claims, but the assassin insisted on a test to confirm it for him. He made piles from items around the yard, and had Jylan walk the dog to them and introduce them as _bucket_ , _straw_ , and _Arainai_ , who was simply standing to the left of the two piles. The commands were:

"Hound, ready." Dirthamen's wagging tail and ecstatic nature vanished. Ears up, shoulders down, eyes alert and watching. "Straw, maul."

The hound charged and with a feral growl slammed his large paws into the hay and crate set up, shattering the wooden box and tearing his fangs through the corded bundle of straw until the pile was completely demolished. The task complete, Dirthamen immediately ran back to Jylan, who was instructed to pet the animal on the head.

"Hound, ready." He repeated, and Dirthamen did exactly that. "Bucket, bite."

Another bounding run, and Jylan considered the possibility that Dirthamen would reach the bucket and stop because there was no sound reason for him to bite the bucket resting atop another crate. Contrary to that opinion, Dirthamen lunged, locked his large jaws around the side of the bucket, and his blunt teeth splintered the wooden slats, collapsing the bucket and causing the metal hoop around it to snap and bounce off. As soon as his jaws closed completely, the hound released and took two steps back, eyeing its prey as if the bucket may bite back, and then turned and ran back to him for another head-pat and praise.

"If you say the command correctly, I will be just fine," Master Arainai called from across the yard. "Please, whatever you do: do not say _maul_."

"Would he attack indiscriminately if I did so, without any provocation from you?"

"Did the bucket provoke you?" Arainai laughed. "He is a war hound, it is not his job to question his master. He trusts you to tell him when something is a danger, regardless of the reality." This was not a level of trust Jylan was capable of handling properly, the hound's bond with him had been a detrimental mistake.

"Hound, ready." He gave the command. "Arainai, frighten."

The maul command was powerful and thorough, the bite was short and direct, frighten…

Dirthamen threw his head wildly before running, snarling and snapping at the air with wild growls ripping from his chest. He charged Arainai and the elf held both his position and his expression, but it became strained when Dirthamen skidded to a halt with long nails extended, throwing his head back and snapping at the air, barks and fierce snarls accompanied by enraged froth flying through the air. The hound was very close to him, but did not touch him, and when Arainai did not move the hound ran behind him in its crazed manner, performing the same terrible dance until the assassin gave up a quick foot of space and broke into nervous laughter.

"Alright- very good-" he laughed, and it did not sound the same as the laugh before. "If he gets too worked up, he may bite me. I do hate it when they start running in circles."

"Hound, heel." The barking stopped. The snapping stopped. Dirthamen did not calm as quickly as he had before, but he went quiet and stopped moving, stood there firm and focused with breaths panting over his exposed teeth. "Dirthamen, to me."

The hound backed away from Arainai by a few steps, then finally broke focus from him and trotted back to Jylan, who knelt this time to greet the animal. He rubbed behind the dog's tall ears as they swivelled to hear when Arainai crunched across the ground to meet them. He scratched Dirthamen's shoulders and the hound was happy to let his long pink tongue loll out of his mouth with unpleasant-smelling breaths. Arainai observed this with approval, and then kicked the ground.

"Stand a moment, and permit me to do something stupid." Jylan did not understand, but there remained the unlikely possibility that Arainai would react negatively if ignored. He stood. Arainai showed both palms for a moment and took a step back, then spoke.

"Hound!" He called, and Dirthamen's disposition went tense and rigid again. "Jylan, _frighten_."

Jylan could see the recognition. Dirthamen's dark eyes opened until he could see the whites around them, and the hound put his ears down flat to his skull and swung his hind legs around with weight pinned on his front paw. He faced Arainai from a deep crouch, back legs poised wide to help keep balance and to block Jylan from the other elf. A deep, menacing growl rumbled hard and loud from the dog's body, and did not stop as Zevran kept his hands up and took two more slow and careful steps away.

"Mabari will _never_ turn on their masters," he explained in a gentle voice. "It's important to know, and it's something no trainer can override. They have no sense of humour and during the Blight I nearly lost the back of my calf for jokingly telling one old friend to bite his master. I am deeply skeptical of you encountering anyone foolish enough to tangle with a mabari, let alone someone that stupid who also knows how they are trained, but if you are in a dangerous situation and Dirthamen is already attuned to you: that is, you have told him to ready and not made it clear that the danger is passed, then he will listen to no one else. Remember this, and be careful with it. If you ally is calling for the dog's help, he will not do anything until he hears you say it first."

"I will remember it." Unlike the rudimentary set of instructions for engaging in ill-advised combat, this information was functionally useful.

Jylan took a knee again, and touched Dirthamen's shoulder. The hound growled louder still, but then stopped.

"Dirthamen, to me." The hound rose slowly from its menacing pose, and then rudely huffed at Arainai and turned to Jylan again. His jubilant nature was dimmed by this final lesson, and he thumped his head into Jylan's shoulder in a demand for comfort. Although it was not satisfactory, he stroked the dog's neck.

The other commands Arainai taught him, without demonstration, were _protect_ , _alert_ , _hunt_ , _find_ , _flank_ , and _kill_.

Samar did not trust Master Arainai's intentions any more now than he had several days ago on the ox cart. Jylan was resolved to the idea that Master Arainai intended harm to someone, but not them. Dirthamen liked Master Arainai a little less for that moment of upset during training, but did not maintain any sense of alarm around him.

Jylan did not consent to wear the vambraces when they boarded the ship, a week after Jylan's dismissal from Vigil's Keep. The Innkeeper sent the same two human servants who had carried the trunks the first time to carry them down to the ship this time, and Jylan carried the rest himself: the bolt of fabric, the Cherrywood lock box, a canvas sack for a single fresh change of clothes with Valora's potions and necessary personal grooming items, also with the satchel of care items for Dirthamen.

Samar offered the hand that pulled Jylan over the side of the ship, to the deck. He was settled below decks, in a nook along the starboard side of the ship where a canvas hammock was routinely hung for such passengers as himself. Master Arainai was in the nook one spot down from his, and travelled only with the gear on his body and a modest saddlebag. Samar would sleep elsewhere, as this was his ship. Jylan's trunks were under the hammock and served as a step to help him into it. There was a small broken glowstone lamp hanging from a cord over the hammock, which did not work.

Dirthamen could not get into the hammock to sleep on him, however, ship holds were not intended to be warm. He was uncertain whether this arrangement would prove more or less agreeable than the very warm but very uncomfortable inn bed.

He felt the change when the ship cast off its lines and began to move. It was a moment of minor, but noticeable, vertigo. Everything was moving but not. It felt like if he should drop something, it would land an inch from where he'd released it; the vessel was moving but the air was not. He felt the ship keel very gently to the right, then settle, then to the left.

Master Arainai fled the hold with a delighted chirp, to watch the city fade behind them.

Dirthamen keened softly from his spot laying on one of the trunks. The hound did not appreciate the sensation of the ship slowly easing its way through the harbour. When he touched the animal, Dirthamen grew calmer.

"We shall arrive in Denerim tomorrow," he explained to the dog, though its understanding of speech was not nearly so comprehensive as to understand what he said. "Master Arainai has paid for a day in the city, and then it will be the voyage south to Gwaren. If the weather is fair, the Captain has said we shall arrive in four days. If it turns foul, it will take outside of a week." But the Lady Freeborn was an ocean-going vessel, and Samar had already turned up his nose at the idea that a coastal squall would slow them by more than a full day. As his brother was a sailor and not a businessman like the Captain, Jylan chose to believe him instead.

Ultimately, it did not matter what he thought or believed of his situation. He was on the ship. He would either arrive in Gwaren or he would drown en-route. Timing made little difference. The finality offered a sense of stability, but not direction.

It was too dark to sew. On deck, he would be in the way. The hold was too small for Dirthamen to run, and there was nothing for the dog to attack or train tactics against. If he proved too burdensome and irritating to the crew, there was a slim, unlikely possibility that he would be removed from the ship in Denerim.

He climbed into the hammock, where the sense of vertigo calmed briefly before becoming more pronounced by the hull of the ship against his side. The smell of pitch and cedar wood was spicy, but not overwhelming. The pervasive odour of ocean brine was found on every breath, but this he found pleasant.

He made note of the pitch and keel of the vessel as it moved through the harbour. He counted the number of times it leaned starboard.

There was nothing else to do but wait.


	26. Interlude: End of Book 1

**This chapter is where I would draw the line as "the end of book 1", I think Echoes is going to be 3 books long. Updates have only been so slow because life's been in the way.**

* * *

 _ **Echoes of Arlathan**_

Interlude: End of Book 1

If Soren hadn't already been watching the signs, then he would have protested when Zevran told him he was leaving. Neither of them were that stupid: they'd both known what was coming before Zevran finally made his announcement, quietly, in the salon when it was just the two of them.

Moodiness, aggression, withdrawal, forced smiles; the disinterest in what was happening around them, the fact that Zevran kept biting his tongue, the way he'd been ruthless and ready to fight him over what was _none_ of his business. Soren commanded an army of exceptional people who all rallied under the same _colours_ , yes, but every Grey Warden lived their own extraordinary life. He knew when one of his Wardens was itching to get out of their mundane routine, and he saw the same foul temper and restlessness chewing through Zevran.

His only options were to resist him, causing a fight that would hurt them both and resolve nothing, or agree and make sure the parting happened on good terms. He chose the second one.

' _Meet me at the Arlathvhen'_ , Zevran had said when he'd finished explaining something Soren had already decided he _could not_ deny him. He'd said quite a bit, but that had been the end of it: _Meet me at the Arlathvhen_. He still intended to go, and he still wanted Soren to be there with him; to watch his back for him. Zevran needed someone he could trust to come with him deep into the Kocari Wilds where the Dalish were gathering under the ruined shadow of Ostagar, and the someone he chose was Soren.

They were going to be okay. Because Soren knew that they were _going_ to be okay, it was easier to meet Zevran's serious gaze and hear him talk his way through what was bothering him. How he felt restless, how he felt irritable, how he knew he loved Soren very dearly but kept finding reasons and ways to conflict with him. So he needed to leave. He needed to go off and be with himself for a while.

He did not tell Soren where he was going, but he gave him a timeline: ' _Meet me at the Arlathvhen_.'

Soren would be there. And to help make sure Zevran managed the same feat, Soren gave him the two parting gifts that would serve him best. One was a gold embossed card of fine, stiff paper, promising the sum of Zevran's choice delivered to the party also of his choice, from Amaranthine's coffers. The other was a small metal box containing the twisted, almost warm body of a sending stone. The card and stone would give Zevran the two most important things Soren could offer: enough money to buy his way out of any trouble he may find himself in, and a method of contacting Soren directly if something unforeseen should happen. Everything else, Zevran could easily provide for himself.

' _Meet me at the Arlathvhen_.'

He would. But standing with his arms folded, leaning to the wall and looking out through the rain-speckled window to the storm dumping dark water over Vigil's Keep, Ostagar in spring felt like a lifetime away.

He'd really left.

Dinah was with him. The hound had abandoned the warm fireside and come to sit beside him, leaning her shoulder and head against his leg, but otherwise respecting his quiet mood. He missed her sire, but Tagar would not have wanted to make the cold, tiring journey back to Ostagar for a third time.

"…Did you love him?"

Morrigan's voice broke him from his own thoughts. He gave a little shake, looking around to find her standing not far from him, but watching him closely. Love him?

"Who- Zevran?" He asked.

"I am not so naïve as to pretend I do not know that answer." She spoke with a faint smile on her rouged lips, "No, not Zevran."

"Then I don't know who you mean."

Her smile faltered, lips pressed thin before she folded her arms slowly. She let her hip rest at the back of the sofa she was standing next to. Uncertainty crossed her face, and the fact that she let him see it had him curious- but also warry.

"Perhaps that is because _I_ did not know _him_." He did not like that statement, but waited to hear her out. The bracing breath she took showed how unsteady the topic made her. "Telaren." Surprise made him blink and stare at her. "Eadric. Your second cohort. Did you love him?"

"Why are you asking me this?" And how did she know his-? _Zevran_.

"Because I have spent too many years enjoying willful ignorance of your life before I entered it, Soren." Morrigan tightened her arms enough, again, for him to notice it. She wanted him to know she was uncomfortable. "Dismiss and huff away from me if you must, but I am asking now. Did you love him?"

"You must know that's a very forward way to start."

"Should I spend an hour or more buttering you up and pouring wine into your glass first?" It would not have _hurt_ for her to try that. "You would know I was angling for something and withdraw from me, so I shall simply ask what it is I want to know: did you love him?"

"You won't even know if we were _friends_ first before jumping to this?" She curled her lips again but this time with a hint of irritation. Good. Be irritated.

"You were _someone's_ lover before you were mine," she huffed. "You said as much before we became entangled, and if it were only youthful boasting then you would not have known the things you did when we first met."

Despite his better nature, Soren pulled the corner of his lips into his own mouth and held them. He let his brows pull up a little, and answered her open annoyance with his own blatant attempts not to smile.

"Are you jealous of a dead elf, my lady?" Morrigan did not share his amusement and her answer was clipped:

"I am not jealous of a relationship that ended when you became a Grey Warden and left the Circle, Soren. What I want is to know if you found the dead body of someone you dearly loved in that tower when you carved a burning path through it." Hmm- he didn't… like how she said that. "Did you love him?"

"How should I know?" He finally answered. "The Circle was hardly the place, and during a Blight was not the time."

"Were you lovers?" It ran the risk of prying but it sounded more like genuine curiosity. Soren didn't have to think back to remember it.

"Sometimes." Maybe Jowan had known, but he probably hadn't. Eadric had known what he was doing and Soren had known how to be quiet. Never in the Apprentice Quarters, only fools who wanted a cold dousing and a night's humiliation in the dungeons met in the dormitories. "Less when we were competing for an Enchanters' favour, more when using one another's talents to improve our own studies. How much did Zevran tell you?"

"That a Templar carried an ill-begotten favour for him," She answered in a dark voice, "And that you once tried to intervene at an age when such things should not have been your burden." He bristled.

"Mind the pity in your voice when speaking of this, Morrigan."

"Our son is but a year older now than you were then," she countered him. "Do not mistake my outrage for anything less."

"And what good will outrage do you?" He asked. "All parties are disbanded or dead. Put it from your mind."

"Not until I know yours."

"Excuse me?"

" _Did you love him?_ " She repeated, emotion creeping into her voice between the barbs of annoyance. "Was it pity? Was it _distraction_? Who was this person that you risked rape and abuse to protect?"

"You asked if we were lovers, but we weren't _then_." Fine! If he had to explain this then he would, just to keep her from running wild with her theories. "He was older than I by a year or so, but arrived after I did. As I already told you: we cycled through times of rivalry and friendship. There were times I hated him, days he sabotaged me, moments I wanted him gone from the Circle or sent to the dungeons for some minor thing. The Templar _changed_ some of that, but I was still a boy when it started and Eadric wasn't much better off. It was different from what the other powers in our lives had done before, so I panicked and I made the wrong choices: I told the Revered Mother, and then I put myself in the Templar's way. If not for my status as Irving's Apprentice and the fact that I smartened up and stopped, I might have been made Tranquil for carrying on."

"Could you not have _told_ the First Enchanter?" She pressed. Soren felt tension wind around his chest, an uncomfortable slither of apprehension.

"Did you share every whisper and fear with your mother, Morrigan?"

"Of course not," she blustered back. "Exposing so many weaknesses and doubts would have…" She stopped talking. She pursed her lips together and cast her eyes to the wall.

"There you go," he said, nodding to close the topic. Morrigan remained quiet, moving her hands until she was touching the thick rope of emeralds around her wrist, looking down briefly at the dark gems where they twinkled in the dim evening glow.

"Were you lovers when you left?" She asked him quietly, looking up very slowly, from behind the black sweep of her bangs.

"I was harrowed and recruited within two days." He admitted, not certain anymore if this was a reminder to her. "I only had the chance to speak to him once before I left, and I was still too addled and stupid from the lyrium to even remember who he was. By the time it cleared up, I was too concerned with Jowan's madness and talk of escapes to go near him. Besides, Mages and Apprentices didn't fraternize: it ended by default the moment I was dragged from my bed."

"Did you not see him at all, then, before you left the tower?" He scowled at her and let that be his answer. "No parting of any kind?"

" _Morrigan._ "

"You have avoided the question several times already, Soren." Because it was a stupid question. "Whether or not I am entitled to it, I cannot help but now wonder how you felt during those early weeks of the Blight. That it _was_ a Blight and you were given to its nightmares I well understood, as well as the numbing reality that the Order you had joined was destroyed the same night. But your lover was left behind hundreds of miles away in a tower with an untouchable brute who abused him with your knowledge but inability to help, and I did not know until now."

"There's your answer: I must not have loved him." There, done.

"Yet you clung to that treaty." Her comment was confusing- until he _remembered_. "We dove into the Brecillian forest from Lothering because we surmised the blight would move north through it, and you desired to find the Dalish before they could be driven off to parts unknown. Then you laid out the path that would take us back towards Redcliffe, to the Circle of Magi, and eventually to Orzammar- but you always focused on the Circle. You were so utterly convinced of their aid, of their strength and purpose. You used to take their treaty out when Alistair was away from camp or asleep and read it to yourself."

"I read all of them, Morrigan." It had been his _duty_ to know what he was asking the various factions across Ferelden to commit against the Blight.

"But none so often nor as reverently as the one for the mages."

"It was my _home_." And he had been young. And he had been naïve. And he had not expected Loghain to poison so much so quickly. "I had every right to look forward to being in a familiar place again, with new powers to bring forward."

"And Eadric did not factor into this at all?" She asked and Soren felt his teeth lock. "You intended to bring me with you: I was there in the tower entrance with you when we learned what had happened. If you had expected a warm welcome home then what possessed you to bring your new lover into the sight and presence of your old one?"

"Maybe the wheel had turned and I had gone back to hating him again."

"For what _purpose?"_ She pressed and he did not like it. "An abused apprentice had no standing to lord over a Grey Warden. Why did you bring me?"

"I _didn't_ bring you, Morrigan," he reminded her, and harshly too. "With the way you conducted yourself, how you spoke of what was happening, the _people who were dying_ , I turned you aside and left you standing at that cold stone door." But he had meant to. He had _meant to_.

In his naïve mind it had been so simple. Uncomfortable, but simple. They would arrive in the Circle, Irving and Greagoir would have welcome them. The treaty would have been discussed and argued because the Templars would resist letting so many mages loose without their supervision- and Soren had been ready to accept and twist Templar arms into more swords for the front lines.

He would have found Eadric who would have known to keep his mouth shut around Morrigan. Eadric would have confronted him privately, if at all, just to make sure they both understood where they now fit into one another's lives. If that meant they were done, if the matter had been too painful or Eadric decided he just didn't want to see Soren again, then that would have settled things.

But if their friendship could survive it, then if Soren hadn't been able to help Eadric join the mages sent to combat the Blight: he would have conscripted him on the spot. Anything to get him out of that Tower as long as he was willing to fight for it.

"Why had you _intended_ to bring me?" As a message to Eadric and, Maker Take Him, because Morrigan _mattered_ to him.

"The history!" He pushed away from the wall, swinging his arms for emphasis. He wasn't angry with her, but he would not! "The traditions! The library of arcane and ancient magics, the lore woven through every book and pedestal! Maker, Morrigan, I found you in a swamp with a hut full of indistinct baubles, hungry for knowledge and things you didn't know. I wanted to take you to the Circle to see what you would think of it- and you _hated it_."

She'd hated it. She had _hated it_. She had seen every wrong and negative and unpleasant thing in the Tower and completely ignored every _scrap_ of what had made Kinloch Hold bearable. She'd made light of the massacre and mocked the efforts to save the few mages suffering inside. She'd ignored the stones set by Tevinter artisans, dismissed the arcane runes chiselled into the floors and archways. She had ignored Wynne's powers keeping the few rescued apprentices safe and derided her spell power for absolutely no reason.

Quiet understanding with Eadric had gone out the window. Impressing and flattering Morrigan's arcane interests had died on the blood-stained tiles. Everything he'd hoped for had gone up in flames, so he'd left her nay-saying behind and brought Wynne along instead. Anything to try and stop the chaos burning the tower from the inside out.

That Eadric had been in Soren's thoughts at all- and he had been… but then…

He wasn't going to do this. Zevran had already screamed and lashed out at him for what he'd thought he'd known of Eadric. Morrigan didn't need to know: he'd chosen the Wardens, and then he'd chosen her, and then the demons had-

Nothing left. The horrible reek of charred flesh. A half-melted pendent looped around a bloodied wrist instead of over his head. A burst pouch of arcane crystals tied to the belt cinching his burnt robes. Knowing, just _knowing_ from the howling pain weeping from spirits across the thin Veil. Hearing his voice shriek and shatter against the walls before a final outburst of protesting flame seared away his struggles. Soren had been two open doors away from where the ritual cage had been cast. He had hated Alistair's voice for announcing _another demon on the way_.

Zevran, his unfamiliar presence a decision made out of respect for his resourceful aid in Redcliffe, had wisely cautioned him that it had been neither the time nor place to linger.

Wynne, whom he had known was hurting more than him but hiding it better, had called it another shameful loss and left with her empty words.

Alistair, suddenly too much a Templar for Soren to stomach, had searched the room for anything of aid or value before heading back out, shield high, and begun the trek to the next room.

When they'd come back that way with Irving and the surviving mages, Soren had been too dizzy and nauseous from fighting to go find the room again. They had camped across the water to speak with the others, share what had happened, and Soren himself had been numb and overwhelmed by it all.

The next morning the corpse had already been dragged away. That had been it. No pendant, no crystals, no lock of hair or scrap of cloth. Not even real, concrete proof that it was him beyond the fact that he was not standing there among the survivors when Irving pledged the mage's support to the Grey Wardens. Gone, just gone. Gone the way Soren had vanished from his life: too lyrium-addled to use his name or remember the taste of his mouth, and then carted off in the wake of blood magic scandal and the creeping hysteria of the Fifth Blight. No good-bye, no keep-sake, no contact, just _gone_.

"No, I didn't love him." He hated the memory. He hated remembering. He hated knowing that was how it had happened. He hated it and he hated himself most of all, because the way Morrigan dared to look at him made it all the more _awful_. His voice felt brittle in his sore throat, and his eyes were too warm, his clothes tight and the air thick. "If I'd loved him then I would have saved him. I would have woken up from the Harrowing and known who he was, and said more than just ' _good luck with that_ ' when leaving for what I hadn't known would be the last time. Are you _satisfied?_ "

"Yes." She said it so quietly, and Soren struggled between watching where her fingers were twirling the black iron band on her hand, and the look of outright _sympathy_ on her face. He did not want her useless- "Do you remember what your last words were to me, before we met again in the Dragonbone Wastes?"

"Something profane, no doubt." He had _hated her_ for the last days of the Blight. His voice felt raw, but no tears had fallen. His vision blurred, but he was too proud for it.

"At the gates," Morrigan recalled softly, and he did not like that she was coming closer to him. "You said _'It's useless to me now'_ after handing me the golden mirror you found in Orzammar. Atop Fort Drakon, it was _'this is not for you'_ before you took that sword from off the ground and charged to the Archdemon's writhing body for the final blow."

He didn't remember it, but he believed her. He remembered very little of the Archdemon itself. A reeking sulfur and cloud of molted blood and darkspawn taint. The clattering ratchet of ballista fire. The utter silence encasing his rapid breaths and foot-falls for a charge he'd made but couldn't remember beginning or ending. He'd woken up a day or more later to a sky free of smoke and filled with sunlit rain.

"Your point?" She was too close now, because she reached out for his face and took it between both hands. He did not want her pity. He did not _want_ -

"My point is that you and I both know we can love to our greatest capacity, and yet still fall short of virtue and kindness." She kissed his eyes and closing them forced the tears hovering there to fall, an irritating fact that was not helped by her thumbs brushing away the drops. "I think you loved him as much as you knew how, and as much as you were able. And it was a long time ago, husband, but I think the world owes you the time to grieve what was lost."

He didn't know what to say. He could either tell her it was _too_ far gone for the suggestion that he needed to grieve, or remind her that he was _not,_ in fact, her husband…

The second point hurt him more deeply than he thought it would, and in the end he said nothing. He hated himself, but he reached for her.

It felt _good_ to hold her, to be held. The familiar smell of her through her clothes, the dark crimson of her perfume, her fingertips brushing the back of his neck. It felt good but it was fleeting, impermanent, and dangerous. At any point she could walk through the Eluvian and vanish from his life forever, the same way he had left Eadric in the library and they had never crossed living paths again. She could lose him to darkspawn, to a stray arrow, or a fall from his horse. She _would_ lose him to his Calling, because his efforts were steadily petering out.

And what then? All of that investment, that trust, that support: wasted, and one of them left lesser for having relied on it.

But it felt _good_ to be held… Warmth crept up and overwhelmed his eyes, put pressure across his sinuses until wet relief seeped past his lashes. Maker, he hated the sensation of tears… Quiet as he could make them, she would feel them and she would know.

At least, _at least_ , his parting words to Zevran had been _'be safe'._

"It has been too long since you slept well, my love," Morrigan spoke to him in a hushed, gentle voice which did not insult him as much as it brought comfort. Her arms were tight around him, his face tucked to her throat and neck. He leaned on her too hard: all of his weight heavy against her. If she moved back then he would hit the floor and know he deserved it for not locking his knees. "Sleep tonight, with the embrium if need be, and tomorrow I want you to come with me."

"…Where?" He asked softly, his eyes still weeping and his ribs beginning to ache. He felt _tired_ , so _tired_ now. Zevran had left and Morrigan was prying through filth and memories for things he did not want to relive- but he would find with her otherwise. If he pushed her then she would leave. Zevran was already _gone_.

She stroked his neck and tilted her head to kiss his hot cheek. He was flushed and miserable and _tired_ …

"I have… explored ruins, and temples, and castles, and outposts, and so many other places in search of knowledge." He knew all of that, it wasn't what he'd asked of her… "But never did I trespass into the Circles… If you will accompany me, my love, I want to finally visit Kinloch Hold."

" _Why?_ " It had… been years. "It's empty, Morrigan. Ransacked, burned… nothing… there's nothing there."

"And at first glance there was nothing in the Temples of Dirthamen, or Syliase, or Mythal," she answered him in that gentle voice. "But that was not true. A thousand years of magical study and tradition was locked inside of that tower, Soren. A hastily set fire and a few lyrium runes could not have destroyed all of it, or even most." She kissed his hair, he closed his eyes and was held tightly to her, his arms looped around her waist. "…will you come with me?"

He… he had not gone ho- gone back to the Circle- not since Irving's funeral. It had been so long ago that… It had been _too_ long.

"… _yes._ "

Morrigan's embrace slackened enough so she could pry his face from her body, and she kissed his lips too gently for him to resist.

She took him to their bed, and she did not fall asleep until Soren felt the Fade calling him: gentle, persistent…

 _Safe…_

* * *

"You're bored, aren't you?"

Jylan was not capable of-

"You," Samar announced in the relative gloom of the _Lady Freeborn's_ hold. "Are bored out of your fucking mind." Two of the ship's sailors were in attendance for this conversation, and were grinning to one another as Jylan responded to the accusation with:

"If you will explain how you reached such a conclusion, I will have a better chance of refuting it."

Samar pointed over the hammock Jylan was standing beside: to the soft white light of the working glow-stone.

"One, how much lyrium did you waste on that thing?" He asked. "And two, why the _hell_ would you pull out lyrium on a _wooden ship?_ "

"You are incorrect." Jylan stated. "Although your caution surrounding refined lyrium is well-founded, and I agree that it would be unwise to open a vial of it in an environment which smells strongly of pitch and tar. However, I did not require any lyrium to fix the glowstone: I merely cleaned it."

One of the sailors snorted hard, covering her mouth and nose with a hand when Samar gave her a threatening look over his shoulder. When she remained quiet, he looked at Jylan again.

"So you just rubbed it with a rag and it started working again? _Bullshit._ "

"I did not clean the outside of it." Jylan clarified. "I bypassed the exterior mechanism, and removed the build-up of corroded silver filament."

"In Trade, Jeevan." They were already using the King's Trade. What Samar requested was simplified language, which Jylan considered before speaking:

"I opened it and scraped the melted bits out."

"Why?" As Samar was the ship's Boatswain, Jylan understood that it was his job to ensure the vessel was in proper running and working order at all times. He was tasked with ensuring all maintenance and upkeep tasks were fulfilled regularly and properly. Broken or poorly functioning glow-stones were under his jurisdiction as Boatswain. Oh.

"If I have overstepped myself as a passenger and compromised your duties as Boatswain, Samar, I will refrain from any further activities aboard the ship." It had not been his intention to cause trouble for the crew, but intention did not matter when the outcome remained the same.

"That's nice but that's not what I asked. _Why_ did you fix it? _I_ know it's because you're bored out of your skull down here, but why do _you_ think you did it?"

"Because Master Arainai asked me to."

Samar dropped his head back and swore. The sailors chuckled and ribbed one another behind him. He did not make them stop this time.

Jylan had been aboard the ship for two days. They had arrived in Denerim's harbour earlier this evening and Master Arainai had disembarked with ample promises to return by dawn, but also permission for the Captain to leave if he did not make it back by the time the sun was fully above the horizon. Jylan had not left the hold at any point since yesterday morning when he had stepped off the Amaranthine harbour dock.

He had spoken to only one member of the crew besides his brother: an elven woman who had asked him if he knew where to empty the bucket provided for passengers' relief, and then shown him where he could drink a ladle of fresh water whenever thirsty. The water tasted strongly of the wooden barrel it was carried in, but as they had known they would be in port again so soon there was no ration in place.

Other members of the crew had seen him, but not approached or spoken to him directly. A trio of them had stood by his hammock and ogled him openly for several minutes yesterday until Dirthamen had decided to growl at them. The dog made routine trips to the upper deck throughout the day, but always ultimately returned to lay down under Jylan's hammock.

"I would have rather heard that you were bored," his brother admitted.

"I will admit that I am not accustomed to such a quantity of empty hours." He had completed half the embroidery pattern he had brought with him from Vigil's Keep, only stopping when he had run out of dyed threads and the cramps in his fingers had grown excessive. "Master Arainai made several attempts to engage me in the basics of knife-play, but complained of the lack of light in the hold: thus the suggestion of fixing the stone."

"How long did it take you to fix?" Samar asked.

"Perhaps ten minutes."

"I'll be back in a sec, stay here." Jylan had not intended to leave the hold.

Samar left and one of the sailors went with him. His brother's rank was superior to most of the riggers, runners, and assorted sailors on the vessel, but Jylan had not seen much of their activity from down here. The second sailor, a human boy in his teen years, gave a toothy grin at Jylan and then nimbly jumped and climbed up through his assigned nook. He braced one bare foot on one of Jylan's trunks and the other against the rib of the vessel, reaching up to the twine and hook that held the glowstone over the bed. He removed it deftly, and hopped back down to the floor.

He crouched and worked his hands over the stone, clearly delighted by the ample streams of milky white light. He covered parts with his fingers and then spread them. He was very young and his fascination was harmless: glowstones could shatter if dropped from considerable height, but a few inches off a wooden floor and worked over by curious hands was highly unlikely to result in either damage or injury.

Samar remained gone for perhaps a quarter of an hour, long enough for the boy to grow bored with the stone and hand it back to Jylan before leaving. Eventually, he heard voices and footsteps coming back towards him.

"I mean even if he only fixes a _few_ of them," Samar's words reached him first.

"Let me see it first."

Samar returned in the company of the ship's Quartermaster, a dwarven woman with a shaved head and brutal scars ripped across the side of her face, misaligning part of her lips and a chunk of one nostril. She demanded the glowstone in his hand and Jylan handed it to her, aware of her authority on the ship despite not having spoken with her before. She spoke the words to douse and reignite the stone and it performed properly: the rune had not been damaged, merely obstructed.

"Do you know how many of these things we have on this ship? And how many are _broken?_ " She asked him, and he said he did not know. "We were _supposed_ to get that lyrium-workers' guild in Amaranthine to repair a bunch of them, but the hurricane sucked up all the money we had to pay them and it never got done. Next bet is Gwaren's dwarven merchant's guild to replace them all, but if you can fix them: I'll find something to pay you with."

"That is not-"

"Jeevan! _"_ Samar barked at him, a confusing interruption. "Anything you think is fair, Quartermaster. Thank you."

"Get him to repair the larger ones first," the Quartermaster told him. "We need the lights if we're gonna sail past sundown. I can't believe you were just _sitting_ on this! We could have put him to work as soon as you two rode into town last week, Ashera!"

"There was a lot going on, okay?" Samar wore a guilty look that did not suit him. "And I didn't know he could do it, I've never actually watched him make stuff like this."

" _Get him to work_." The woman huffed and turned away, stomping off to other duties.

Jylan was brought up into the quiet twilight of Denerim harbour. The ship was barely moving in its moorings, and the smells of the city's smoky fires and twinkling lights felt far away. It was quiet and peaceful, with several sailors sitting out on the docks where metal drums were filled with flames to warm them as they ate and drank and threw dice.

"You don't have to work tonight," Samar told him, blowing white clouds from his mouth when he spoke. It was cold and they were only a hundred miles south of Amaranthine. "Maybe just get one done, or open, and then tomorrow you can work on the others. Even if it's just a copper or two per stone, it's more for us to live on when we get to Gwaren."

"I am not accustomed to arranging payment for individual acts of labour, Samar. I apologize for not recognizing your intentions." He wore his gloves and cloak and the scarf from Warden Lavellan to warm himself. His tunic and shirt were too thin. His trousers were much too thin. "If there is light then I will work. I am not fatigued."

"You've been staring at the hold's ceiling for two days, I'm not surprised."

The glowstones were bound in thick ropes like glass floats: a net of cords keeping the stone from coming loose and dropping into the water. They provided light so vessels would not run into one another, to aid inspection of the hull, and simply to allow the sailors to work and go about their duties with some sense of safety. Compared to the fist-sized stone hanging over Jylan's hammock, these ones were significantly larger. Samar aided him in removing the first of the seven stones lashed to the railing of the ship's starboard side.

Finding the proper runic marks on the stone permitted the quartz lump to separate and fall open like a large flower. Inside was a thick cylinder of silver, inscribed with fine lyrium markings. He took the cylinder into his lap and used one of Samar's knives to follow the runes, removing flecks and chips of corroded metal. At the end of a glowstone's life, the silver would whittle away to nothing from repeated scrapings and cleanings. For this one, it was only half-gone. The quartz petals were stamped with the sigil of a Dwarven crafting house.

His brother brought him a bowl of hot beans and gravy, as well as a small skin of wine which they shared. He completed the task of cleaning before closing the stone and speaking the word to light it. The pumpkin-sized stone blazed with pure white brilliance, and he doused it again to prevent harm to his eyes after working in relative darkness.

Samar was pleased with him and hugged him roughly, pushing a kiss to his cheek. The stone was taken back to its place and his brother hummed while weaving and unweaving the ropes to get the stone back safely into its position. Jylan completed two more that evening, and the other four the next morning after the ship cast off with Master Arainai's quiet, almost melancholy presence returned to them.

"It is good to be busy, isn't it?" The other elf asked him, another glow-stone open at Jylan's feet with the silver cylinder resting in his lap. The ship's surgeon had given him a small steel hook which was far more appropriate for this manner of work than Samar's fighting dagger. He was working on the port-side stones now.

"Yes." It was also more agreeable to be out of the hold, in the cold wind and bright sun of the Amaranthine Ocean. They did not sail beyond sight of land before turning south, but the ship's sails were open wide and swollen with eddies of fast-moving air. The wind smelled fresh with brine and early winter snow, frost collected on the south-facing parts of the ship as they cast white foam behind them in a wide wake.

"You have nieces and nephews from your sisters, do you not?" Arainai asked him. The work was tedious but not excessively detailed. He could speak and scrape at the same time.

"I have been informed by Samar that that is the case."

"Do you know their names? Their ages?"

"I know that the eldest is perhaps eight or nine years old, and the youngest was born this summer."

"That's it?"

"I come bearing no warning or gifts for them. It is not necessary for me to distract my brother with questions when he is engaged with his duties as Boatswain. I will learn their number, names, and ages soon enough." He completed work on the stone and closed it. In the light of day the glowstones did not hurt his eyes when he tested them.

"I have a nephew." Arainai's statement was nearly lost to the wind. "Not through blood, but love. I was able to see him last night and it was worth more than the gold I paid for the privilege. I hope that you will find something very similar among your own kin. Have you considered what you will do about your name, ser?" Jylan moved on to the next stone. He had two more for the port side and then three on the bow, and two on the stern. That would be the end of the large stones and from there he would return to the smaller ones found tucked in assorted places throughout the ship. Fire was dangerous, glowstones were not.

"As I have letters of recommendation from Vigil's Keep for both my family and chantry names, it does not seem worthwhile to continue to spread and introduce my chantry name. However, it will ultimately depend upon my ability to find work and pay within the city. If I am employed by the Bann, or one of the Merchant Guilds which may desire to see me rekindle my connection to the Formari Guildsmen as a correspondent, then the surname Ansera is more familiar and useful to such ends. However, if I am contracted to a smaller apothecary shop or a new profession of less outside interest, it will not do to use one name at work and another in the alienage."

"You are committed, then, to live in the alienage?"

"If my siblings will permit it, then yes." The alternative would be to acquire a living space elsewhere in the city which would leave him in a state of isolation. Although Dirthamen could fight and perform protective acts, it was not wise to take advantage of that fact and tempt harassment or attack as a lone elf in a human city.

On the second day from Denerim, Jylan woke up to his breaths clouding the air in the hold. The tips of his ears and nose were numb from cold, and his hands remained numb until he completed twenty-one push-ups and thirty sit-ups in the dark. Dirthamen ran from one end of the hold to the other multiple times, and Master Arainai performed a series of elaborate stretches and breathing exercises before waking up properly for the day.

The food on board, as Samar had warned him initially, was not good. Pickled fish. Pickled eggs. Pickled roots. Very sour and salty and sharp, while also served cold because fire on board the ship was not worth the risk, and the crew had no mage. Burning powder, a substance Jylan used frequently, was not much better than open flame but was used sparingly to heat wine and beer in small portions. The bread was fresh from Denerim, but growing staler and harder by the day. At Master Arainai's quiet insistence, Jylan avoided eating the food from Amaranthine.

Dirthamen suffered on cold fish when hungry, and spent less time on the upper deck unless Jylan was there working. The quartermaster, at least, was very pleased with him. No other members of the crew would speak to him. They knew trade, yes, but spoke to each other exclusively in Rivaini, which was also how Samar spoke to them.

On the third day south the ship was covered in frost and now sharp, dangerous tongues of ice. The riggers were sent up and down the lines to knock the sharp spikes off into the water, and Jylan was kept below decks with most of the other sailors until the dangers were removed. From that point on, Samar was consistently badgering a set of elven riggers to keep an eye out for more ice and to deal with it before it could form a danger.

On the fourth day, they were caught in a wall of fog which gave the captain cause the furl two of the ship's three sails and dramatically reduce their speed. Because the glow-stones were working, they were ignited in the daylight hours because the sun was not strong enough to burn through the fog.

It snowed. Pieces of the grey sky and quiet wind that fell like ash from nowhere and vanished without sound.

The fog and ice persisted on the fifth day, when Jylan was woken up by the loud and alarming noise of something bashing and grinding into the ship's hull. Master Arainai was deeply alarmed and leapt from his hammock and dashed up on deck to see what was happening, only to report back a few minutes later with Samar to explain that they had encountered early winter ice.

"We'll be fine," Samar explained with a dismissive yawn. "It's not thick yet and it's normal enough around Gwaren. We just need this fog to lift so we can find our landmarks and hit the harbour mouth without having to circle back around and try again." His brother was a sailor and therefore in the most appropriate position to gauge their level of immediate risk. If he was not frightened then it was reasonable to assume he held that belief due to greater understanding of their situation.

Regardless, Samar went every hour down from the deck, through the hold, to the very bowels of the ship and back again with a working glowstone. He checked every plank and seam in the vessel as the ice thundered and slammed into the wooden beams. He reported to his captain and the quartermaster that there was nothing amiss.

As for the notion of missing the mouth of the Gwaren harbour: the stars barely visible directly over head at night told the navigator that they were within the Teyrnir of Gwaren, but without landmarks on the shore they may not find the estuary itself. Gwaren's lighthouse would serve them best at night, not during the bright but fogged-over day when the beacon may be missed.

The captain had several sets of eyes scanning the mists, just to prevent that from happening.

On the sixth night, one of the watchers saw the lighthouse through the fog. The vessel made a slow, nearly blind approach in the darkness. Jylan was asleep for the approach, and was roused in the dark of the ship's hold by a cold hand brushing down his face, the gesture repeated over his hair, and then his temple and cheek again. When he took a deeper breath of cold air and tried to move in the slumped shape of his hammock, Samar rubbed his shoulder instead, and helped his foot find one of the trunks so he could stand and climb down. Once he reached the floor, Samar pulled him into a long, warm embrace.

"It's gonna be okay." His brother's breaths were warmer than the rest of him. He brushed his hand through Jylan's unbound hair again, and took a rough breath before letting him go. "C'mon, we're here."

"The luggage?" He asked, respecting the quiet. There was no more ice grinding on the ship.

"It's taken care of," Samar explained, hands adjusting Jylan's cloak and ensuring the soft fur of the Dalish scarf was warm to his throat. It had been necessary for him to sleep fully clothed as the weather became colder and colder. Jylan had not lived this far south since he had been a child. "I had a silver for them to split but having lights on deck for the approach made them sweet on you. Couple coppers and they're good to carry the boxes once they get a bit of sleep."

"We are leaving now?" It was dark and very quiet.

"Yeah. _Yeah_. We're leaving now." Samar did not speak with urgency, but with great feeling in his whispering voice. "Alienage gate is just off the warehouse district. Bring the box and your bag, the trunks and fabric the boys'll bring. They know where I live- where _we_ live. C'mon."

They left without rousing Master Arainai, with Jylan's sack holding the food from Amaranthine, his clothes and his comb and his soap and a small rag for washing. The bracers he had been given by Warden Velanna warmed his arms through his thin sleeves, and the knife was unnecessary but attached to his belt and under his cloak. The Cherrywood lock-box, with its wealth of coin and lyrium and documents, he held under his arm. Dirthamen needed no encouragement to leave the drafty, dank hold and emerge under the midnight blue sky dotted with golden city windows and quiet cobble lanes.

Samar led him down the ladder to the hollow weight of the dock.

Fifteen years since he had last seen it, Jylan returned to Gwaren.


	27. Silent Night

**Double update to try and make up for some of the slowness. Posted same time as chapter 26.**

* * *

 _ **Echoes of Arlathan**_

Silent Night

The streets of Gwaren were bright. Between the moon and the thin traces of snow: there was a subtle brilliance to the lanes and alleys of the settlement. The same fog that had delayed their ship by two days clung to the tall stone warehouses and crept between the low walls of property and work-yard. Samar walked quickly, led Jylan quietly, with a hand behind him and frequent looks back to make sure Jylan was indeed following him- and closely too, with Dirth at his heels.

"We're almost there," his brother urged. His great need for them to leave the ship despite the time of night and sweeping darkness of the city was unexplainable. Jylan set himself to following quickly, breaths clouding the air as he walked. His hands were chill through his gloves, his shoulders holding some heat that was lost when his feet kicked open the fall of his cloak. His hood remained up, but did little to keep him warm. He walked with the Cherrywood lock-box under one arm, and the strap of the bag holding the food and a few personal belongings over his shoulder.

They turned off the main road away from the docks and quietly sped along until they reached a high wall with a gate set in it. Like many cities, Gwaren's alienage was distinct from the other quarters by the face of a large gate, and it was now closed. They could not enter the alienage, and would have to return to the ship.

"This way."

"The gate is closed," Jylan repeated, uncertain how his brother could have failed to notice it.

" _This way_." He was beckoned a second time by Samar, whose short cloak was insufficient for the cold weather. If Jylan was cold, his brother should have been easily convinced to return to where it was, if not warmer, then at least sheltered from the open sky.

He followed his brother down a narrow lane between one warehouse and the quiet yard of a craftsman's lodge. Here the snow had not melted away entirely, and formed deep puddles of slush over dirt-caked cobbles. Samar hushed him when Dirth's steps were too loud through these puddles, and then beckoned a third time with his hand and led him further into darkness.

A pile of crates and old stones, a place where the wall had been blown down at its top five feet, exposing the twisted iron bars which reinforced the rest of it. Samar mounted the crates, turned back to give Jylan a hand to make the same climb, and the hound managed the feat without difficulty. Samar then scrambled up the broken wall and squeezed his way nimbly through the bars. He waited on the other side for Jylan to perform the same illicit task, and it took both of them holding one bar to pry the old iron in such a way as to make enough space for Dirth's stocky shoulders to pass through. Samar then helped him quietly manage a narrow plank of wood down onto a small chicken coop. The animals made a gentle fuss as two grown men and a war-hound traipsed over their roof and then hopped down on the outside of the wooden fencing. They landed in more cold, snowy water, and walked quickly around through a very tight black alley littered with snow and trash. Samar broke free into moonlight and Jylan followed.

They were now standing in the shadow of a great oak tree, it's broad branches barren in the winter cold. Briefly and unbidden, Jylan remembered the same twisted arms reaching across a blood-red sky, fire and smoke and taint poisoning the city.

Dirth keened softly in the dark.

The memory was gone before Samar approached the tree itself, its base painted with colours Jylan could not make out in the mixture of moonlight and snow. _Vhenadahl,_ that was the el'vhen word for it. Jylan followed his brother and watched him take out one of his daggers. He marked the bark of the tree with the blade and then wedged one of the playing cards he had made in Vigil's Keep into the slat, then touched his forehead to the wood and backed away again.

" _Superstition_ ," Samar whispered when he collected Jylan with an arm around his shoulders. " _And good luck._ Our house is this way."

The alienage was a mixture of different sorts of buildings: some were stone at their first level and wooden constructs higher up, others were wood from the ground and were only one level, or as many as three. The taller buildings were built against the stone walls of the city around them, with smaller ones crowded close and tight in front, encroaching as closely to the _Vhenadahl_ as they could without threatening the tree.

Wash lines were stretched and strung between buildings, some holding sheets and rags that had frozen solid in the winter chill. Doorways were cluttered with broken, discarded tools: old shovels and picks and fishing rods and other things. Huge stacks of canvas rolls, old netting, and wooden planks marked the alienage anywhere the ground had not settled and opened up great puddles of snow and mud. It was not a well-cared for environment, but he had known not to expect beauty and grandeur.

Samar turned and led him through the first layer of cluttered little buildings, down a tight alley to a second row of houses, and brought him to a two-story home with a crooked front door that was plugged at the bottom with rags and soiled cloth. Dirth snuffed briefly at the door before turning away with a grunt.

It was the middle of the night and the door had no discernible lock. Samar struck his fist against the flimsy door three times, then whistled a tune up to the cold sky.

They waited.

They did not wait long.

Jylan heard footsteps, fast and frantic, before the rags were kicked away and the door wrenched open. A dark face with tangled black hair falling from the crown of her head in a curtain around her shoulders was staring at them so widely the whites of her eyes were glowing in the reflection of the snow. The woman was clutching a dark shawl closed over her chest, was shorter than Samar or Jylan, and she was nearly hunched over herself.

She looked at Samar, and only Samar, and with a frantic heave from her chest she wailed at him and let go of both the door and her shawl. Something clattered to the floor and she rushed straight into Samar's arms, who embraced her hard and fast. She gasped sharply, then choked on a sobbing noise that heaved from her body.

" _Ariyah_ -"

"You _awful man_ -" the woman's voice was shrill but quiet, a painful husk of despair. "-you stupid, _awful_ fool! Samar- _Samar-_ "

"Ariyah-!" He was firmer this time, and held her tight. "Sister, calm down. I'm alright, didn't you get my letter from Amaranthine?" He stroked her hair, pulling it back as she began to weep into him. The pointed lengths of her ears came through her dark hair, and she grasped at him with a hand that-

Dirthamen uttered a low, dangerous growl.

Her skin was dark, darker than Jylan's, and the moonlight did not shed enough of a glow. But he saw that the middle and ring fingers of her hand would not bend and they left something behind on Samar's cloak when he shifted and tried to speak with her, to calm her. The sound of the dog made her jump and fight to get away from him, and her wide eyes found Jylan in the dark before she suddenly dropped to the floor.

She found the knife she had let slip and grabbed it, the point glinting in the low light before she was up from her crouch.

" _Who the hell are you?"_ She hissed, enough of her hair drawn back to show something was not right with her face. The eye resting in moonlight should not have been darker than the one in the doorway, her cheek was noticeably raised, and when she clutched the knife it was with her off-hand, the other clutched close to her body like it hurt her.

"No-" Samar took her wrist, then the knife, wrenched the weapon free like he might have a feather from a bird. " _No_. What happened to your face? What's wrong? _Bahain_ , answer me."

" _Who is he?_ " She gasped at Samar this time, grabbing his wrist and pulling him to come between her and Jylan. To relieve some of her distress, he took a quick step back from the door with Dirthamen swinging around behind him in a low crouch.

"He's your brother, like me, now come inside and sit down."

"Brother-!?"

"I found him, now inside. _In_." He nearly picked her up to take her across the threshold and into the dark house. Jylan did not follow.

"I will remain out here until she is-"

Samar reached back out, took him hard by the neck of his cloak, and dragged him forward across the threshold. He staggered but did not fall, and stomped into the house where he was immediately caught in the dark and the overwhelming scent of astringent laundry soap. The air was damp and cold, and with the door open behind them it was the only source of light.

"Where are the children?" Samar's rough voice asked in the dark. He was a formless shape that made wood clatter against stone, and close to him was the sound of Ariyah's sharp breaths as she was made to sit.

"Asleep," she gasped. " _Samar-"_

"Jeevan, the fireplace is to your left, strike something." It was a reasonable demand. "Is there wood?"

" _I don't know_ ," she answered, and Samar repeated it in disbelief.

"You _don't know?_ Ariyah what's _happened?_ "

It was very dark. Jylan's hands reached through the murk and he walked and walked until he found the cold stones of a chimney, then the ledge of a mantel, then the mouth of a sooty hearth. He felt inside because it was not warm and found cinders and broken bits among the deep bed of ash. Although it made a mess, he followed the stones with his hands until he found two dry portions of wood and a box of scraps and kindling. He took a handful of the trash and pushed away some of the ash to clear a space for a new fire, stacking the dried wood atop it.

"When did your ship come in? Tonight?"

"Ariyah, answer me. Where did these bruises come from? Why is the house so cold?"

He drew the dagger from Velanna and turned the sheathe over in his hand, striking blindly at it looking for the line of flint set into the wood and leather casement. Sparks flew, but it took several more attempts until they caught on the loose threads and dried leaves and began to smoke. The small flames were fed with another hand of kindling, nearly emptying the box. He brushed his hands off as light began to build and the flames caught on the wood. It was not enough to burn all night, but it would suffice for now.

"You must be hungry. I'm sorry, there's no dinner."

" _Stop._ Where are Rian and Saya?"

Jylan stood and let the light into the room, closing the front door and noting the rags before kicking them back into place under the noticeable space between the door and the threshold. The floor was covered in dried rushes, as well as a noticeable quantity of dirt over the stone tiles. Samar had seated his sister at a large dinner table which took up much of the space in the room, and hanging from several lines along one wall were sheets and clothes meant to be drying.

There was a modest kitchen behind his siblings: a counter of wood and stone with a warped top, a large bucket for carrying water in and out of the house, pots and pans and many, many jars on a crooked shelf hammered into the wall. Many dried herbs hung from the walls and ceiling.

Closer to him and to the fire was half a stone wall that was all that remained of an older structure. A large, oddly shaped bed was nearly lost under blankets, pillows, lengths of fabric and wool. All but hidden under one fold of black fabric was a small nose and two wide, wet eyes. Jylan could see the fragile curl of tiny fingers, and the rhythmic motion of a small mouth sucking a smaller thumb.

"Maker's Breath- _Jeevan_." Samar drew his attention away from the frightened, hidden child. He approached the table where Samar was gently cradling their sister's hand between both palms. "Can you fix this?"

He looked down, and Samar held Ariyah's hand out so he could see it. Her ring and middle fingers were darkly bruised, nearly crooked, and she held them very stiffly. It was possible that she had broken them, but he could not know for certain without touching her- something he was unwilling to do. After making his observation, he took a step back again and folded his hands together in front of him, hidden by the fall of his cloak.

"Samar, you can't be serious…" She spoke to Samar but was looking at Jylan. One of her eyes was indeed bruised and her cheek was swollen. She had been beaten. "This can't be him…"

Drawing a proper breath, Jylan addressed his brother's request.

"I am not a healer, but I can provide a poultice for her hand and eye. If the fingers are broken, I would be capable of setting them, but have neither a splint nor bandages to wrap them with."

Dirth traipsed back into this room. Jylan had been too preoccupied with the fire to notice that there was another doorway further inside the home that led off somewhere. The dog's nose was snuffing at the dirty floor, ears up and alert. When the animal's actions took his attention, they also drew Ariyah's and Samar's.

The dog circled the table, then snuffed many times at Ariyah's chair, then at her skirts at which point she immediately shied back towards Samar. The hound was irritated and made a deep rumbling noise in his chest.

Jylan saw that when Ariyah moved, her skirt parted with a frayed, uneven seam. It had been torn. It had been ripped.

"Samar." He had not intended to speak as he did not know what right he possessed to do so. Dirth snuffed and sniffed at her repeatedly, growing more and more agitated, and it recalled several instances of the same behaviour at Vigil's Keep following each of Jylan's encounters with- "Is there a midwife in the alienage?"

"A _midwife?_ " Samar asked. Ariyah stared at Jylan with eyes wide and silently filling with terror, and he lowered his gaze to the table. "Why would we need…?" A sudden pause. "Dirth-?" Recognition. " _No._ "

Samar stood up quickly from his chair and Ariyah grasped at him with both hands, making pleas in a shattered, whispering voice.

" _Stop-_ Samar, _no_ -" She pleaded, and he shook her hands off, an ugly look of rage twisting his face. "His ship came back a month ago and we didn't know how much longer yours would take. He brought silver, the _Hahren_ said we had to try again so I _did_."

" _I'll kill him_ -"

"No, the _Hahren_ said-"

"Then I'll kill the _Hahren_ too!" Samar shouted, his voice much too loud in the quiet room. "Why is there no firewood? Why is there no _food!?_ If he brought silver into this house then _where is it? And where is Rian!_ "

"Rian is with the little whore and left her milk-brat with me!" Ariyah howled back at him, frightening Dirthamen from her side and bringing the hound back quickly to swing behind Jylan's legs. "And I don't know! _I don't know!"_ She screamed.

Jylan heard a sharp, piercing wail break out from under the blankets next to him. When he looked, he saw only one small hand slide out and cup over the open mouth of the wailing child, dragging the smaller one down until the blankets hid all signs that they were there. The bedding shifted in too many places for one person, and the crying was muffled by both the blankets and the screaming:

"He said he would bring fresh meat from the market for the children and I, took his silver and vanished all day!" Ariyah railed at Samar, standing and holding her crippled hand to her breast like she would slap him with it. "When he came back after sunset without so much as a cabbage leaf and reeking of drink, he did _this_ to me for not making him dinner from nothing! In front of his own children!"

"You let him!" Samar yelled, and she slapped him.

"He took _every coin_ and tried to belt _my son_ for saying you would be home to stop him!" She screamed back at him, tears cutting down her cheeks. "You're _never_ _home!_ And _my son_ had to pay for it until _I_ stopped him, _without_ _you!_ "

Samar was quiet in the face of this, the slap quelling his temper rather than firing it up further. Jylan watched in utter silence as his brother gathered his thoughts, then clenched his jaw and spoke again.

"Your face, your hand: where else did he hurt you?"

Ariyah took a sharp breath, staggered at the question, and shook her head.

"That is between husbands and wives," she choked. They all heard Samar take a bracing breath of anger, they did not hear Jylan before he spoke.

"Master Ashera," and he did so with the intention of distracting from the unwise verbal blow Samar intended to inflict on their sister. "You are fatigued from the long voyage and emotionally distraught. Your sister is in a state of intense physical and emotional discomfort, and her children have already been exposed to intense conflicts this evening. I understand that no one in this household was provided with proper food yesterday, and hunger leads to powerful experiences of distress."

They both looked at him with tense, narrow suspicion. He did not feel anxiety at their attention and did not back down from the scrutiny. He was tranquil, and he was offering to mediate their immediate issues of hunger and desperate anger.

"Why did you call me that?" Samar asked him, his voice rough.

"Because I do not refer to you by your surname, and it seemed the most efficient way to distract you without raising my own voice in the middle of your conflict."

"Good job."

"Thank you. Do you know where more wood or other fuel for the fire may be acquired at this time of night? The two pieces present in the fire now will burn down soon." Samar's gaze fluttered past him and Jylan pivoted to allow a clearer view of the small fire. He nodded without speaking. "If you will return promptly with such fuel, I will administer the poultice to your sister and prepare the meal provided to us at the beginning of our journey for her and the children to consume."

"Why does he talk like that?" Ariyah asked, still watching Jylan with wavering, watchful eyes.

"It's just the way he is," Samar answered her in a soft voice. "You want to eat that stuff _now?_ "

"I understood from your sister's cries that she and her children have not eaten all day, and were subjected to violence at the very end of it. Have I misconstrued events?" Samar shook his head and Ariyah's dark eyes looked close to tears again. Therefore, he continued: "As the children are now awake due to your argument, it seems only reasonable to feed them. Your family is cold, Samar, please fetch the wood to warm them."

His brother nodded once, then repeated it several more times. He was tired and deeply stressed, and turned around quickly to catch Ariyah up into a tight hug and kiss her hair. She clung to him the same way and let tears fall, then they let go of each other and she mumbled instructions and a direction to him. He opened the door and stopped very abruptly on the threshold for a moment, then continued out and shut the door behind him.

Jylan unslung the bag from the ship onto the table and opened the top of it. The Cherrywood lock-box was placed beneath the bag. In no particular order, he removed the dry loaf of bread and the portion of smoked deer meat, then the two smoked pheasants, which were wrapped in a piece of linen. One of the birds was missing a leg: a peace offering to Dirthamen while on board the ship.

"Who are you?" Ariyah asked in a quaking voice, her eyes wide as she watched the food appear from his hands and settle on the table. He did not know if the surface was clean, but hunger would not be dissuaded by such things. "Stranger, where did you get all of this?"

"From the denizens of Vigil's Keep, a fortress in the north of the country where I was employed as a chemist and apothecary." He removed the jars of preserved fruits, checking two of them and replacing the ones of strawberries and peaches, replacing them with the strips of cured ram's tongue and salted pork. "May I place one of the birds in a pot of yours, to heat in the fire?"

She moved wordlessly away from him, showing a weak limp of sore pain as she did so. Jylan watched her fetch a black iron pot with a lid and bring it to the table, and he placed the smoked meat inside before closing it. As he had said, he placed it in the hearth next to the small fire to heat up.

He heard a quiet whimper and when he looked to the bed he saw Dirthamen resting his chin on the blankets, a small hand reaching out and grasping the animal's muzzle and nose. A young child with tear-stained cheeks and messy black hair was reaching her arm out from under the blankets to touch the animal, the protective arm of an older boy wrapped around her as he pushed the blankets down off his head and showed his bruised face in the firelight.

Jylan returned to the table and reached into the bag again. This time he withdrew the small wooden box given to him by midwife Valora and slid the top off. The verdant branches, the snowdrop oil, the tonics and extracts. He selected a small, familiar ceramic jaw with a wooden top and replaced the lid on the box. He opened the jar to reveal a fragrant green jell, and carried it to where Ariyah was sitting.

"This is a poultice of elfroot and dawn lotus powder," he explained. "It will bring down the swelling and ease the pain of your injuries. I request your permission to apply it to your face while the food is warmed."

"Tell me who you are first," she told him warily, but had reclaimed her seat at the table. Her eyes spoke of more weariness than fear. "Sanjay!" She called sharply, not breaking eye-contact with Jylan. Rather, he was the one to look down instead so as not to offer offense. "Stay on that bed. Wait for your uncle to come back."

He answered her question.

"I was born Jeevan Ashera of the Gwaren Alienage, the third of your four brothers." He explained himself and reminded her of where he fit into their family. "I understand that my presence and behaviour may be unsettling to others, therefore it is necessary to inform you that I do not expect acceptance or affection. I have returned to Gwaren to acquire paid work for my skills so as to help continue to support your family. May I apply the poultice?"

She was quiet and she stared at him for several silent seconds. Finally, she looked deep into the fire and closed her eyes.

"Fine."

The mixture in the jar was very potent, that was why the Grey Wardens used it. Jylan needed only to wet his thumb with it and apply the oils sparingly before they began to work on her. She permitted him to look at her hand and it was good that her fingers were not broken, merely bruised and pulled sharply out of alignment.

"I can correct the misalignment of your fingers by applying pressure to them. It will not be painful, but will be unpleasant."

"Just- _fix them_." He fixed them. She cried out when he did so and fresh tears came down from her eyes, but she was able to move them again freely after that and followed his instructions to only touch the jell before applying it across her knuckles.

Samar returned to the home with pieces of a large wooden pallet taken from one of the trash piles in the alienage. He broke them apart with his knives and the heel of his boot, and threw several planks into the fire after pulling the pot out carefully and setting it on the table.

Two more children had appeared out from under the blankets. A girl a little younger than the boy, holding the soft and fussing body of a young baby in her lap. The baby had a much fairer complexion than the other children and its face was strange. A lump under the blankets was weeping softly.

The boy with the bruised face was looking at Jylan with intense hatred. His mother called him Sanjay, and Samar reached under Sanjay's arms to pull the crying, soft-limbed little girl up to his shoulder and chest, hugging her sweetly and stroking her hair.

"Let your uncle see your face, Sanjay."

"He hurt mama," the angry boy said sharply.

"He helped her and he brought you good food to eat." Samar scolded, but his voice lacked heat as he soothed the crying child on his shoulder. "He'll make your face stop hurting, boy, now go to him."

Sanjay did come to Jylan, but he did so with his thick dark brows drawn down in a hateful way. He looked at his mother, who was pulling apart the heated pheasant and stuffing its meat into chunks of the stale bread. Ariyah handed the portion to the little girl who brought her the baby, which she took into her lap because it was too young to sit up on its own. The baby was strange.

"Tahir," Ariyah called to the bed, where the blankets were still weeping. "Tahir, come and eat. There's food, aren't you hungry?"

" _No-_ " the blankets wailed. _"No- noo…_ " Ariyah clicked her tongue.

"Fine, don't eat…" She grumbled. "Samar, bring her here next to me. Anu?" The little girl on Samar's shoulder turned at the sound of her name.

Jylan touched the green salve with his fingertips and looked at the straight black marks on Sanjay's face. He had been struck with a belt, or a flat paddle. His hair was short and wild, and his eyes were very angry.

Before Jylan could touch him, the boy spat in his face. He shoved Jylan's shoulders and although Jylan was stronger, he had been crouching and was knocked off balance. It did not hurt to tumble backward, and he did not spill the poultice.

Samar's hand grabbed his nephew by the scruff of his dirty shirt and yanked him backwards. When the boy resisted with a snarl, Samar simply lifted him up and set him down firmly on one of the chairs around the table. He took a knee and snatched the boy's wrist away when Sanjay tried to swipe at him, and showed his teeth with a loud voice.

"That's _enough_."

"He hurt _mama!_ " Sanjay yelled, and he kept yelling when Samar tried to speak. "You left and he hurt her! He made her cry! He hurt her hand and you weren't there! You didn't come back!"

"Sanjay-"

" _You didn't come back!_ " The boy screamed it this time, and then his quivering lip and red-blushed eyes gave in to an outburst of deep, exhausted sobs. He closed his eyes with tears bubbling down his cheeks, his whole body shaking as he sat there in front of Samar and wept.

Anu and the other girl next to Ariyah both began to wail, the older one with a piece of half-chewed bread and meat just sitting in her mouth. It was a chain reaction of one child's distress bleeding over and setting off the others. Within moments, even the infant was crying against Ariyah's shoulder. She was looking across the table at Samar with a lost, exhausted look, and he was just as forlorn.

Jylan's ears were ringing with the sound of crying. He could not remember a louder noise in his life. Five crying children all sitting and screaming in one room together. They did not know him and he did not know them, he did not have the emotional capacity to sooth or comfort them, and did not know how he could possibly supply aid to either of his own siblings.

The solution Ariyah devised was not one he was comfortable with participating in. She stood up and went to him directly where he was standing in his shock. She gave him the infant.

"I cannot-"

"Just _hold him_."

It was warm and soft and weighty but also squirming, and screaming, and its bones were soft and its clothing was thin and damp from sweat. It was practically guaranteed that he would drop it and such a fall would kill it, which would be an intolerable reality to overcome.

He sat down on the floor to limit the possibility of dropping the baby. He set its feet on his legs, then brought it to rest against his chest and arm. It continued to cry and scream and he did not know how to sooth it. The room was a chaos of screams and tears.

That Dirthamen had begun to whine only added to the horrible noise. Jylan considered opening the front door but doing so would require either putting the infant down on the dirty floor, or carrying it that far to let the dog out. He did not know what to do, and it was Samar who spoke the dog's name and then indicated Jylan. The hound hid its face in his lap, ears pressed down flat against the noise.

Ariyah and Samar pulled the blankets off the bed, revealing the fifth child, Tahir, another boy who sat up wailing that he was cold and swiftly going as red-faced as his siblings. Ariyah climbed onto the bed with her torn skirts and sore body, and laid down. The youngest girl, Anu, was placed into her arms and drawn close to her. The next one, Raveena, was given a place to cuddle close to her stomach. Tahir needed Samar to physically drag him up from the foot of the bed where he had hidden himself, and his brother Sanjay was dropped on top of him before Samar kicked off his boots, cast his cloak off and then over his sister and nieces, and began gathering blankets up over the children. He entered the bed himself just to give the children a choice of who to cling to.

Slowly, like nails screeching down slate, the crying began to fade out. First one, then another, then another, until it was only the infant in Jylan's arms that was sobbing red-faced and scared from all the noise. Dirthamen's whines petered out and Jylan himself was numb from the horrible din.

The children had been through too much. They had been hungry, and then their father had accosted their mother, attacked their brother, and then turned again on Ariyah if not in this room then still in this house where they had been witnesses. The house had been left cold and dark and quiet in his absence, and then their mother had let a stranger into the home again while yelling and screaming with their uncle.

"Hold him properly and he'll stop." He looked up and saw Ariyah looking at him from the bed, Samar's head twisting around to look back over his shoulder at Jylan. "Have you never held a baby before?"

"No, I have never held a baby before." Samar chose to scoff at this. It was not appropriate.

"Try taking off the scary hood first," his brother suggested, then went back to trying to sooth one of the two boys in front of him, one of whom had crawled up to peer over his shoulder at the stranger holding the screaming baby. As the child's face was not bruised, he surmised it may have been Tahir.

Jylan removed his hood. He did not see how it would help. What happened was that the infant's screams withdrew to quieter, uncomfortable hums and whines of distress. His face was still red, his eyes and mouth wet from screaming. Although red and crinkled, his small eyes were blue. When Jylan touched the baby's face, he could confirm now that the child was far, far lighter in complexion than he was.

Finally, he realized why the child looked so strange.

"This is a human baby." Perhaps an elf-blooded one, but certainly: it was human.

"Better off left on the chantry steps." Ariyah's voice was disdainful, but too tired for more venom. She was kissing one of her children around the words. "If he's calm, bring him here to me."

Standing up with the infant in his arms was tedious and unsettling. It felt like every bone and organ inside the child was loose and liable to slide out of its body if handled too roughly or simply in the wrong manner. He managed to find his feet, and to cross the room, and to lean over Samar's back and let Ariyah…

She took the babe around one arm and simply took him like that, bringing him down between the other children. One of the little girls who he thought might have been Anu, reached up as a sign for the baby to fall to her. Her bother Tahir quickly squirmed over to help cradle and hold the infant between them.

"He's Saya's," Samar's voice was tired and low. "Their cousin."

"I will assume that there is a reason why the infant is here with Ariyah and not with Saya."

"So will I," Samar agreed. "Hey, there's a bit more space if we shuffle over. You can lay down."

"I will decline." With his answer, he took a small step back from the bed. "My presence would likely only serve to alarm them once again."

"That wasn't _your fault_." Samar meant to sooth him, but that was unnecessary.

"I did not mean to imply as much, however, my presence was still a contributing factor."

"This is your _life_ now, get over here."

"Thank you, but no. I will remain in the room, but not crowd the bed further."

" _Jeevan-"_

"Samar, _hush_." Ariyah swiftly cut in. She was rubbing one of her son's backs gently, and the child's eyes were closed as a sign of either deep comfort or sleep. "There are still blankets on Rian's bed. Sleep in there, stranger, or bring the blankets out here and sleep on the floor."

"He's not a stranger," Samar hissed.

"He is to my children and he is to _me_ , Samar," she countered hotly. "I didn't tell him to get out or throw his kindness back at him, I told him where to find something to sleep on. Now _enough_ , it's too much." Samar huffed back at her, but let the matter die.

Jylan left them and explored the house. It was unfamiliar to him, he did not know anything about the layout of the rooms or where the doors led. There was one other room on this floor which had a root cellar, very empty, and then a creaky flight of stairs which led to the second floor. Here there were several bedrooms, each incredibly tiny, and one with sheets which were badly mussed and thrown about. Jylan shied away from that room to avoid the risk of encountering the distinct, meaty smell of sex.

Two of the rooms were cold and untouched. He did not know which was Rian's but pulled the thin quilt off of one and returned to the main room downstairs with it.

"One of us'll walk you to the midwife tomorrow," Samar was explaining gently, and Jylan did not hear Ariyah protest this decision. Jylan added more wood to the fire, and placed the uneaten food back into the same pot as the pheasant before covering it.

He unfastened and spread his cloak over the rushes and dust collected on the stone floor, laid down, and spread the blanket over his legs and torso. He kept his boots and belt on, there was no point in undressing as he would become very cold. Dirthamen only waited until the blanket had settled before immediately curling up next to him, head on his paws, and a tired huff announced the hound's fatigue.

They each, one by one, dropped off to sleep.

He opened his eyes slowly before dawn. The fire had burned down to glowing embers and the floor was very, very hard and uncomfortable. His back and shoulders and hips all hurt, and he felt brittle as he pushed himself up onto his knees. The room was cold when the blanket fell off his back.

Jylan brought the fire back with a few minutes of careful work. The planks from the broken crate were thin and burned down too quickly, letting off licks of black smoke which smelled foul. Although the material was not ideal, it served its function and offered both light and warmth to the room.

Jylan found a candle and holder on the mantle and took it down, lighting the wick and carrying it with him. He went into the root-cellar and looked at what was available. Most of the shelves were barren, empty meat-hooks brandishing nothing. There were only a cluster of old dusty jars with unknown contents. The dirt floor had been disturbed and never pushed back down, but he doubted the presence of additional potatoes, onions, carrots, or other root vegetables. Such cheap foodstuffs, even in winter, would not be costly to restock.

He went to the kitchen and found no food of note. A bag of flour, half empty, a jar of something that was not like corn or millet or barley, but close, with only a few cups' worth at the bottom. A piece of lard. Glass jars of varying colour and design, the most decorated items in the house: spices he did not pry into. Eight small pigeon eggs were hidden in a brown jaw, under an over-turned bowl.

It was illogical that the kitchen should be across the room from the fire, but the answer was an iron cooking stove with an attached pipe leading up through the ceiling and out of sight. Jylan knelt and opened it: the bottom had worn away and fallen out, rendering the stove useless.

There was a water pump, something unexpected in an alienage slum. Wary of waking his sister or her children, Jylan did not try the handle, but he did kneel again and open the cupboard under the sink. The pump had a split pipe leading down into the ground. It was as useless as the stove.

Someone had invested money into rebuilding this home after the devastation of the Blight, but the family had not been able, for whatever reason, to maintain it.

He would do so.

He continued his search of the house. The steps creaked but were sound. The walls were stained, but relatively solid. The beds were too small and too few for the number of children, and if the family did not have proper firewood or money for charcoal then it was clear why they chose to sleep downstairs by the main hearth, rather than try to heat every room.

He did not go into Ariyah's room, or the one he assumed was hers given the mess and reminders of violence. One of the smaller rooms he surmised as Samar's. There was a broken sextant on the chest of drawers and cold, discarded papers: a ship manifesto from several years ago, a cargo list from a ship that was not the _Lady Freeborn_. He did not go through the drawers or chest in the room, but took note of the window: the glass had broken and the room was both very cold and very damp. Considering the cost of glass, it may be prudent to simply board up and seal the window rather than repair it.

The next room was locked.

The last was the one he had taken the blanket from last night. The pipe from the broken kitchen stove passed through the floor and up through the ceiling. If there was an attic, Jylan did not see the place to access it from.

"There's nothing worth stealing, stranger." Ariyah was awake and about her business when Jylan returned to the main level. His sister was in her kitchen, her long black hair tied back with a strip of fabric, and her sleeves rolled up. She had the pot of untouched food from last night open in front of her and her hands were shredding one of the pheasants, ripping the cold flesh off and breaking it up smaller and smaller, removing every bone and placing them in a small pile next to her elbow. "Why are you here?"

There was a faint, misplaced scent of pipe-smoke.

"I was dismissed from my previous contract, and Samar made a compelling argument that I should seek employment here in Gwaren, closer to your family." Her hands stopped, but the only part of her that moved were her eyes.

Ariyah had very dark, very intense eyes, nearly black and yet wide even for an elven woman. The colour and size made the whites stand out sharply in contrast. She had given the same trait to her son, Sanjay.

"My family?" She repeated in a sharp voice. "Aren't you going to claim it for yourself? Make it yours? Make it sound like you belong here, just because?"

"I have not only been away from Gwaren and completely out of contact with my kin for many years, Mistress Ashera, but I was also subjected to something known as the Rite of Tranquility during my time in the Circle of Magi. I am not ignorant of the discomfort my presence can bring to others, and as I said last night: I hold no expectations of acceptance or affection."

"Then what do you want?"

He did not want anything: he was tranquil.

"To be useful, and tolerated." Her hands slowed in their labour, but did not stop again. She looked down at her work and resumed the same pace, discarding bones and keeping everything else in the pot. She took a rough breath and nodded her head to the side.

"Then go draw a bucket of water from the well. And hang that second bird in the pantry, we won't need it today." Jylan took the smoked bird from Vessa and hung it from one of the meat-hooks in the root cellar, then roused Dirthamen by moving the hound off his cloak. He pulled it on and drew the hood up over his head, fetching the bucket as Samar gave a loud yawn and stretch from the crowded bed.

"Hey- where're you-?"

"Don't stop him," Ariyah cut in. "I just told him what to do."

Jylan removed the cloth from under the door and pulled it open. It was bright and cold and crisp outside, and he waited only a moment because he heard Dirthamen's paws scrambling over the rushes to come after him. The door swung shut.

The scent of pipe-smoke was more pronounced.

Master Arainai was standing next to the front door, a long-stem pipe in one hand with soft clouds of sweet smoke curling around his nose and hand. He offered a cheeky, smoke-filled grin.

"A most pleasant morning to you, Compounder."

"That is no longer my title. Why are you here?"

"Why, I'm taking in the wonderful sights and sounds of the alienage, of course!"

"From a dirty back alley filled with trash?" It was likely that the fact that Jylan could not intone or commit emotion to his voice would increase the ludicrousy of Master Arainai's statement. He was correct: the other elf made a rough coughing noise in his throat and then gestured with his pipe for them to walk together. As Jylan did not know which way the well lay, he followed.

"I understand that there was an upset in your household last night, and I thought it prudent to linger for a while and ensure that questionable persons did not make a return." He had followed them from the ship and listened at the door.

"You are referring to my brother-in-law?"

Master Arainai stopped short, raised a hand and turned to face Jylan directly. He hesitated for a breath to select his words, and then spoke smoothly.

"Men of such nature do not deserve the distinction of family, Compounder. They are not brothers, or husbands, or fathers: they are simply parasites who feed off the pain and control of others. Put him from your mind. What were you sent out here for?" Master Arainai had killed him. Provided the murderous act was not blamed on Samar or Jylan, the matter did not require explanation to the rest of the family.

"To fetch water."

"This way then."

The alienage gates were open and there was much activity around the _Vhenadahl_ : servants and workers and labourers all getting ready for their work day much earlier than many of their human counterparts likely needed to. Dirthamen was excited by the activity, but kept close to Jylan as they moved through the sparse tangles of workmen and washwomen. Jylan was able to draw cold, clear water from the deep well built near to the great tree and turn back with Master Arainai to find his siblings' dwelling again.

"Have you any thoughts for the funds you brought?" Master Arainai asked, both of them walking with their hoods up: Arainai because of his tattoos, Jylan because of his brand.

"Yes." And he proceeded to explain: the front door needed to be either repaired or replaced. The bottom of the iron stove and pipe for the water pump. "That so many of the components are in place implies a modest investment to have them restored. The pipe below the floor is connected to water, the stove already has a working chimney."

"You will want to verify both of those facts before you start anything." Arainai offered caution but also encouragement. "The _last_ thing you need is to throw gold at a project only to find out that the water dried up or the chimney was sealed. But, if you are successful: the home could be quite comfortable. Have you put forward any considerations for work?"

"No. It appears that arrangements have changed drastically since Samar was last home, and as I can expect my severance pay to continue to reach Gwaren for the next few months it is not necessary that I acquire employment immediately."

"Take a few days to settle in," Arainai agreed, clapping him on the back. When the assassin fell back to vanish before reaching the home, Jylan stopped as well.

"Were you watching the house from the time Samar and I arrived until now?" He asked, pulling Arainai back to him with his words where the other elf had been mid-step in getting away from him.

"I don't think your brother is very happy about it, but yes," he admitted. "He saw me when he left to find firewood for the rest of you, but permitted me to remain when I told him there was no need for both of us to freeze outside." Jylan had not noticed.

"I do not have the authority to invite you inside, nor can I say if Ariyah will permit either of us to eat, but it is warmer within the house than on the street. If she and Samar will consent to have you, will you come inside?" Arainai touched one gloved hand to his chest.

"Compounder, I am _touched_." It was unclear whether he meant this statement as sarcasm or not. His voice carried playfully with high and low tones, but his eyes betrayed surprise. "Perhaps in a few days' time. The children already must deal with one hooded stranger in their midst, best not to alarm them with one more." That was a reasonable expectation, and Jylan nodded to show his understanding.

Master Arainai lingered in his place for a few moments more, and Jylan turned away to continue back to the house.


End file.
